li'lllllfll'l^l'lMTM?i';„9l^y,f,9"NIA,  SAN  DIEGO 


[;.  3  1822  022012033 


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University  of  Caiifomia,  San  Diego 
Please  Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall. 

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MAY  3  0  1997 

MAft  1 2  W98 

1 

ilBoofeflf  b?  spr0«  0nna  3flamcsfon» 


THE  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN :  Moral,  Po- 
etical, AND  Historical. 

THE  DIARY  OF   AN   ENNUYEE. 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LOVES  OF  THE  POETS.  Bio- 
graphical  Sketches  of  Women  celebrated  in  Ancient  and  Mod- 
em Poetry. 

STUDIES,  STORIES,  AND   MEMOIRS. 

SKETCHES  OF  ART,  LITERATURE,  AND  CHAR- 
ACTER. With  a  Steel  Engraving  of  Raphael's  Madonna  del 
San  Sisto. 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  EARLY  ITALIAN  PAINTERS 
(Cimabue  to  Bassano). 

LEGENDS   OF   THE  MADONNA  as  represented  in  ihe 

Fine  Arts. 

SACRED  AND   LEGENDARY  ART.     In  two  volumes. 

LEGENDS  OF  THE  MONASTIC  ORDERS  as  repre- 
sented in  the  Fine  Arts.  Forming  the  Second  Serie;  ^  Sacred 
and  Legendary  Art. 

Each  volume,  i6mo,  $1.25 ;  the  ten  volumes,  in  box,  $12.50;  half 
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WORKS  ON  ART.  New  Edition.  Edited,  and  with  a  new 
Memoir  of  Mrs.  Jameson,  by  Miss  E.  M.  Hurll,  recently  of 
Wellesley  College.  With  a  large  number  of  illustrations  made 
especially  for  this  edition.     5  vols.  8vo,  gilt  top. 

Sacrbd  and  Legendary  Art.     2  volumes. 

Legends  of  the  Monastic  Orders. 

Legends  of  the  Madonna. 

Memoirs  of  the  Early  Italian  Painters. 
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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
Boston  and  New  York. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN 


MORAL,  POETICAL,  AND  HISTORICAL 


BY 


MRS.  JAMESON 


^From  the  last  London  Edition 


''^^^^^ 

^s 

^^^^^^^ 

I^^Si 

pfBitergtoeBrfifg; 

BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

I  goo 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/characteristicsoOOjameiala 


PREFACE 

TO  TfTW  NEW  EDITION. 

In  preparing  for  the  press  a  new  edition  of  tliis  little  woric,  the 
knthor  has  endeaTored  to  render  it  more  worthy  of  the  approb*- 
Uon  and  kindly  feeling  with  which  it  has  been  received ;  she  can- 
not better  express  her  sense  of  both  than  by  justifying,  as  far  aa 
It  is  in  her  power,  the  cordial  and  flattering  tone  of  all  the  public 
eriticlBms.  It  is  to  the  great  name  of  Shakspeare,  that  bond 
of  sympathy  among  all  who  speak  his  language,  and  to  the  sub- 
ject of  the  work,  not  to  its  own  merits,  that  she  attributes  the 
success  it  has  met  with, — success  the  more  delightful,  because, 
in  truth,  it  was  from  the  very  first,  so  entirely  unlocked  for,  as  to 
be  a  matter  of  surprise  as  well  as  of  pleasure  and  gratitude. 

In  this  edition  there  are  many  corrections,  and  some  additions 
which  the  author  hopes  may  be  deemed  improvements.  She  haa 
been  induced  to  insert  several  quotations  at  length,  which  were 
formerly  only  referred  to,  from  observing  that  however  familiar 
they  may  be  to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  they  are  always  recog- 
nized with  pleasure— like  dear  domestic  faces;  and  if  the  memory 
foil  at  the  moment  to  recall  the  lines  or  the  sentiment  to  which 
the  attention  is  directly  required,  few  like  to  interrupt  the  course 
of  thought,  or  undertake  a  journey  from  the  sofa  or  garden-seat 
to  the  library,  to  hnnt  out  the  volume,  the  play,  the  passage,  tat 
themselves. 

When  the  first  edition  was  sent  to  press,  the  author  contem- 
plated writing  the  life  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  with  a  reference  to  her 
art ;  and  deferred  the  complete  development  of  the  character  of 
Lady  Macbeth,  till  she  should  be  able  to  illustrate  it  by  the  im 
personation  and  commentary  of  that  grand  and  gifted  actress ;  bu 
the  task  having  &Uen  into  other  hands,  the  analysis  of  the  char 
hcter  has  been  almost  entirely  rewritten,  as  at  first  conceived,  or 
rather  restored  to  its  original  form. 

This  little  work,  as  it  now  stands,  fbrma  only  part  of  a  plan 
which  the  author  hopes,  if  life  be  granted  her,  to  accomplish  ;— 
at  all  events,  lifb,  while  it  is  spared,  shall  be  devoted  V>  ita  tah 
tlment. 


CONTENT* 


laTBODVOnOH. > 


OBAMkOrXU  OP  CfTKLLm. 

Portia , , U 

Isabella 88 

Beatrice 99 

Rosalind 110 


OHAXlOnU  OF  PASSI05  Ain>  DtAOnrATIOV. 

Jtiliet. 119 

Helena 163 

Perdita. 172 

Viola 181 

Ophelia 187 

Miranda 207 

OHAKAOmS  OP  THI  APPBcnom. 

Rermione 219 

Desdemona 240 

Imoeen 259 

Cordelia. 280 

marouoAL  OHAaAoma. 

Cleopatra. 802 

Octavia 841 

Volomnia 846 

Constance  of  Bretagne 857 

Elinor  of  Guienne 88T 

Blanche  of  Castile 88» 

Margaret  of  Anjoa 894 

Katnerine  of  Anragon 40" 

Lady  Macbeth 487 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF   WOMEN. 

INTRODUCTION. 
Bcta&—A  LSirary. 

AliDX. 

Yon  will  not  listen  to  me  ? 

HEDOM. 

1  do,  with  all  the  deference  which  befits  a  gen 
dem-in  when  a  lady  holds  forth  on  the  virtaes  <rf 
Der  own  sex. 

He  is  a  parricide  of  his  mother's  name, 

And  with  an  impious  hand  murders  her  fame, 

That  wrongs  the  praise  of  women;  that  dares  writ* 

Libels  on  saints,  or  with  foul  ink  requite 

The  milk  they  lent  us. 

Yours  was  the  nobler  birth. 
For  yon  fix)m  man  were  made — man  bat  of  earth— 
The  son  of  dost  I 

Whafathifl? 


10  mXRODUCTIOW. 

WKDOH. 

**  Only  a  rhvme  I  learned  from  one  I  talkud 
withal ; "  'tis  a  quotation  from  some  old  poet  that 
has  fixed  itself  in  my  memory — from  Bandolph,  1 
think. 

ALDA. 

Tb  very  justly  thought,  and  very  politely  quoted 
and  my  best  courtesy  is  due  to  him  and  to  you  : — 
but  now  will  you  listen  to  me  ? 

XKDOir. 

With  most  profound  humility. 

ALDA. 

Nay,  then !  I  have  done,  unless  you  will  lay 
aside  these  mock  airs  of  gallantry,  and  listen  to 
me  for  a  moment  1  Is  it  fair  to  bring  a  second- 
hand accusation  against  me,  and  not  attend  to  mj 
defence  ? 

MSDOH. 

Well,  I  will  be  serious. 

ALDA. 

IX>  80,  and  let  xa  talk  like  reasonable  beinga. 


Then  tell  me,  (as  a  reasonable  woman  yon  wiU 
^ot  be  affronted  with  the  question,)  do  you  really 
expect  that  any  one  will  read  this  little  book  o/ 
fonnf 


INTBODUCTION.  11 

ALDA. 

I  might  answer,  that  it  has  been  a  great  source 
rf  amusement  and  interest  to  me  for  several  months, 
and  that  so  far  I  am  content :  but  no  one  writes  a 
book  without  a  hope  of  finding  readers,  and  I  shall 
find  a  few.  Accident  first  made  me  an  authoress ; 
and  not  now,  nor  ever,  have  I  written  to  flatter 
any  prevaih'ng  fashion  of  the  day  for  the  sake  of 
profit,  though  this  is  done,  I  know,  by  many  who 
have  less  excuse  for  thus  coining  their  brains. 
This  little  book  was  undertaken  without  a  thought 
of  fame  or  money :  out  of  the  fulness  of  my  own 
heart  and  soul  have  I  written  it.  In  the  pleasure 
it  has  given  me,  in  the  new  and  various  views  of 
hmnan  nature  it  has  opened  to  me,  in  the  beautiful 
and  soothing  images  it  has  placed  before  me,  in  the 
exercise  and  improvement  of  my  own  faculties,  I 
have  already  been  repaid :  if  praise  or  profit  come 
beside,  they  come  as  a  surplus.  I  should  be  grati- 
fied and  grateful,  but  I  have  not  sought  for  them, 
nor  worked  for  them.    Do  you  believe  this  ? 

MEDON. 

I  do :  in  this  I  cannot  suspect  you  of  affectation, 
for  the  profession  of  disinterestedness  is  uncalled 
fi)r,  and  the  contrary  would  be  too  far  count* 
nanced  by  the  custom  of  the  day  to  be  matter  07 
reserve  or  reproach.  But  how  could  you  (saving 
Vhe  reverence  due  to  a  lady-authoress,  and  speak* 
ing  aa  one  reasonable  being  to  another)  choose 
inch  a  threadbare  subject  ? 


IS  INTBODUCTIOJr. 

ALDA. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

HEDOK. 

I  presume  you  have  written  a  book  to  nudntain 
flie  superiority  of  your  sex  over  ours ;  for  so  I 
judge  by  the  names  at  the  heads  of  some  of  your 
chapters  ;  women  fit  indeed  to  inlay  heaven  with 
itars,  but,  pardon  me,  very  unlike  those  who  at 
present  walk  upon  this  eartL 


Very  unlike  the  fine  ladies  of  your  acquaintance, 
I  grant  you ;  but  as  to  maintaining  the  superiority, 
or  speculating  on  the  rights  of  women — nonsense  1 
why  should  you  suspect  me  of  such  folly  ? — it  ia 
quite  out  of  date.  Why  should  there  be  compe- 
tition or  comparison  ? 

MBDON. 

Both  are  ill-judged  and  odious ;  but  did  you  evei 
meet  with  a  woman  of  the  world,  who  did  na4 
abuse  most  heartily  the  whole  race  of  men  ? 

ALDA. 

Did  you  ever  talk  with  a  man  of  the  world,  who 
did  not  speak  with  levity  or  contempt  of  the  whoU 
auman  race  of  women  ? 

MEDON. 

Perhaps  I  might  answer  like  Voltaire — **  H^las 


INTRODUCTION.  II 

Jb  pourraient  bien  avoir  raison  toua  deux."  Bat 
do  you  thence  infer  that  both  are  good  for  noth- 
ing? 

ALDA. 

Thence  I  infer  that  the  men  of  the  world  ana 
the  women  of  the  world  are  neither  of  them^ 
good  for  much. 

MBDON. 

And  you  have  written  a  book  to  make  them 

better  ? 

ALDA. 

Heaven  forbid  !  else  I  were  only  fit  for  the  next 
lunatic  asylum.  Vanity  run  mad  never  conceived 
Buch  an  impossible  idea. 


Then,  in  a  few  words,  what  is  the  subject,  and 
what  the  object,  of  your  book  ? 

ALDA. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  illustrate  the  various 
modifications  of  which  the  female  character  is  sus- 
ceptible, with  their  causes  and  results.  My  life 
has  been  spent  in  observing  and  thinking;  I  have 
had,  as  you  well  know,  more  opportunities  for  the 
first,  more  leisure  for  the  last,  than  have  fallen  to 
the  lot  of  most  people.  "What  I  have  seen,  felt, 
thought,  suffered,  has  led  me  to  form  certain 
opinions.  It  appears  to  me  that  the  condition  of 
women  in  society,  as  at  present  constituted,  is  false 
iu  itself,  a»<I  mjurious  to  them, — ^that  the  educatiov 


14  XNTBODDCTION. 

of  women,  as  at  present  conducted,  is  founded  in 
mistaken  principles,  and  tends  to  increase  fear< 
ftiUy  the  sum  of  misery  and  error  in  both  sexes ; 
but  I  do  not  choose  presumptuously  to  fling  these 
opinions  in  the  face  of  the  world,  in  the  form  of 
essays  on  morality,  and  treatises  on  education.  I 
have  rather  chosen  to  illustrate  certain  positions 
by  examples,  and  leave  my  readers  to  deduce  the 
moral  themselves,  and  draw  their  owi»  inferences. 


And  why  have  you  not  chosen  you*"  examples 
from  real  life?  you  might  eas'ly  have  done  so. 
You  have  not  been  a  mere  spectator,  or  a  men 
actor,  but  a  lounger  behind  the  scenes  of  exis(> 
ence — ^have  even  assisted  in  preparing  the  puppeti 
for  the  stage :  you  might  have  given  us  an  epitome 
of  your  experience,  instead  of  drean? Ing  over  Shak* 
speare. 

ALDA. 

I  might  so,  if  I  had  chosen  to  become  a  femab 
satirist,  which  I  will  never  be. 

HEDOIT. 

You  would,  at  least,  stand  a  better  c^^ance  of 
being  read. 

AIJ>A. 

I  am  not  sure  of  that.  The  vile  taste  fo"  satire 
Knd  personal  gossip  will  not  be  eradicated,  I  sup- 
pose, while  the  elements  of  curiosity  and  nalirM* 
"emain  in  human  nature ;  but  as  a  fashio'^  of  l>f;»» 


INTKODUCTIOX.  18 

tture,  1  tMnk  it  is  passing  away ; — at  all  eventa  it 
b)  not  my  forte.  Long  experience  of  what  is  called 
'*the  world,"  of  the  folly,  duplicity,  shallowness, 
Belfishness,  which  meet  us  at  every  turn,  too  soon 
unsettles  our  youthful  creed.  If  it  only  led  to  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  it  were  well;  if  it 
only  taught  us  to  despise  the  illusions  and  retire 
from  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  it  would  be  better. 
But  it  destroys  oar  belief — it  dims  our  perception 
of  all  abstract  truth,  virtue,  and  happiness ;  it  turns 
life  into  a  jest,  and  a  very  dull  one  too.  It  makes 
us  indifferent  to  beauty,  and  incredulous  of  good- 
ness ;  it  teaches  us  to  consider  self  as  the  centre  on 
which  all  actions  turn,  and  to  which  all  motives  aia 
to  be  referred. 

MEDON. 

But  this  being  so,  we  must  either  revolve  witi 
these  earthly  natures,  and  round  the  same  centre, 
or  seek  a  sphere  for  ourselves,  and  dwell  apart. 

ALDA. 

I  trust  it  Is  not  necessary  to  do  either.  Whila 
we  are  yet  young,  and  the  passions,  powers,  and 
feelings,  in  their  fuU  activity,  create  to  us  a  world 
within,  we  cannot  look  fairly  on  the  world  witb- 
mit: — all  things  then  are  good.  When  first  wa 
throw  ourselves  forth,  and  meet  burs  and  briars  on 
every  side,  which  stick  in  our  very  hearts ; — and 
fair  tempting  fruits  which  turn  to  bitter  ashes  in 
ihe  taste,  then  we  exclaim  with  impatience,  all 
things  are  evtL     But  at  length  comes  the  caltv 


i6  DITRODUCTIOK. 

hour,  when  they  who  look  beyond  the  superficiei 
of  things  begin  to  discern  their  true  bearings; 
when  the  perception  of  evil,  or  sorrow,  or  sin. 
brings  also  the  perception  of  some  opposite  good, 
which  awakens  our  indulgence,  or  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  cause  which  excites  our  pity.  Thus 
it  is  with  me.  I  can  smile, — nay,  I  can  laugh 
Rtill,  to  see  folly,  vanity,  absurdity,  meanness,  ex- 
posed by  scornful  wit,  and  depicted  by  others  in 
fictions  light  and  brilliant.  But  these  very  things, 
when  I  encounter  the  reality,  rather  make  me  sad 
than  merry,  and  take  away  all  the  inclination,  if  I 
had  the  power,  to  hold  them  up  to  derision. 

MEDON. 

Unless,  by  doing  so,  you  might  correct  them. 


Correct  them  I  Show  me  that  one  human  being 
who  has  been  made  essentially  better  by  satire !  O 
no,  no!  there  is  something  in  hmnan  nature  which 
hardens  itself  against  the  lash — something  in  satirt 
which  excites  only  the  lowest  and  worst  of  301 
propensities.    That  avowal  in  Pope — 

I  most  be  prond  to  SM 
Men  not  afraid  of  God,  afraid  of  me  I 

o-has  ever  filled  me  with  terror  and  pity— > 

MIDOH. 

From  its  truth  perhaps  ? 


INTnOOUCTION.  1? 

ALDA. 

From  its  arrogance, — for  the  truth  is,  that  a  vica 
never  corrected  a  vice.  i*ope  might  be  proud  of 
the  terror  he  inspired  in  those  who  feared  no  God 
in  whom  vanity  was  stronger  than  conscience :  but 
that  terror  made  no  individual  man  better;  and 
while  he  indulged  his  own  besetting  sin,  he  admin- 
istered to  the  malignity  of  others.  Your  professed 
satirists  always  send  me  to  think  upon  the  opposite 
sentiment  in  Shakspeare,  on  "  the  mischievous  foul 
sin  of  chiding  sin."  I  remember  once  hearing  a 
poem  of  Barry  ComwaU'a,  (he  read  it  to  me,) 
about  a  strange  winged  creature  that,  having  the 
lineaments  of  a  man,  yet  preyed  on  a  man,  and 
afterwards  coming  to  a  stream  to  drink,  and  be- 
holding his  own  face  therein,  and  that  he  had 
made  his  prey  of  a  creature  like  himself,  pined 
away  with  repentance.  So  should  those  do,  who 
having  made  themselves  mischievous  mirth  out  of 
the  sins  and  sorrows  of  others,  remembering  their 
own  humanity,  and  seeing  within  themselves  the 
same  lineaments — so  should  they  grieve  and  pine 
»way,  solf-punished. 

MEDON. 

'Tis  an  old  allegory,  and  a  sad  one — and  but  too 
Bnach  to  the  purpose. 

ALDA. 

I  abhor  the  spirit  of  ridicule — I  dread  it  and  I 
despise  it    I  abhor  it  because  it  is  in  direct  con* 


18  INTRODUCTION. 

tra  Jiction  to  the  mild  and  serious  spirit  of  Chri* 
tianity;  T  fear  it,  because  we  find  that  in  every 
tftate  of  society  in  which  it  has  prevailed  as  a 
fashion,  and  has  given  the  tone  to  the  mannera 
and  literature,  it  marked  the  moral  degradation 
and  approaching  destruction  of  that  society ;  and  I 
despise  it,  because  it  is  the  usual  resource  of  the 
shallow  and  the  base  mind,  and,  when  wielded  by 
the  strongest  hand  with  the  purest  intentions,  an 
inefficient  means  of  good.  The  spirit  of  satire 
reversing  the  spirit  of  mercy  which  is  twice  blessed, 
Beems  to  me  twice  accursed ;— evil  in  those  who 
indulge  it — evil  to  those  who  are  the  objects  of  it 


"Peut-4tre  fallait-il  que  la  punition  des  im. 
prudens  et  des  faibles  fut  confide  h  la  malignity, 
car  la  pure  vertu  n'eilt  jamais  6t/6  assez  cruelle." 

ALDA. 

That  is  a  woman's  sentiment 

MEDOK. 

True — ^it  teas;  and  I  have  pleasure  in  remind' 
ing  you  that  a  female  satirist  by  profession  is  yo* 
an  anomaly  in  the  history  of  our  literature,  as  a 
female  schismatic  is  yet  unknown  in  the  history  of 
our  reli^on.  But  to  what  do  you  attribute  thf 
number  of  satirical  women  we  meet  in  society  ? 

ALDA. 

'KTnt  to  our  nature ;  oat  to  a  state  fjf  .  ociety  is 


INTRODUCTION.  J  9 

which  thfe  levelling  spirit  of  persifiage  has  been 
i.ong  a  fashion ;  to  the  perverse  education  which 
fosters  it;  to  affections  disappointed  or  unem- 
ployed, which  embitter  the  temper;  to  facultiei 
misdirected  or  wasted,  which  oppress  and  initate 
the  mind ;  to  an  utter  ignorance  of  ourselves,  and 
the  conunon  lot  of  humanity,  combined  with  quick 
and  refined  perceptions  and  much  superficial  cul- 
tivation ;  to  frivolous  habits,  which  make  serious 
thought  a  burden,  and  serious  feeling  a  bane  if 
suppressed,  if  betrayed,  a  ridicule.  Women,  gen- 
erally speaking,  are  by  nature  too  much  subjected 
to  suffering  in  many  forms — ^have  too  much  of 
fancy  and  sensibility,  and  too  much  of  that  faculty 
which  some  philosophers  call  veneration,  to  be 
naturally  satirical.  I  have  known  but  one  woman 
eminently  gifted  in  mind  and  person,  who  is  also 
distinguished  for  powers  of  satire  as  bold  as  merci- 
less ;  and  she  is  such  a  compound  of  all  that  nature 
can  give  of  good,  and  all  that  society  can  teach  of 
evil — 

MEDOJt. 

That  she  reminds  us  of  the  dragon  of  old,  which 
was  generated  between  the  sunbeams  from  heaven 
and  the  shme  of  earth. 

ALDA. 

No  such  thing.  Rather  of  the  powerfiil  and 
beautiful  fairy  Melusina,  who  had  every  talent  and 
every  charm  under  heavec  but  once  in  so  many 
Uoun  was  fated  to  become  \  serpent.    No,  I  return 


fO  INTRODUCTION. 

to  my  first  position.  It  is  not  by  exposing  folly  ayd 
Bcorning  fools,  that  we  make  other  people  wiser 
or  ourselves  happier.  But  to  soften  the  heart  by 
images  and  examples  of  the  kindly  and  generous 
affections — to  show  how  the  human  soul  is  dis- 
ciplined and  perfected  by  suffering — to  prove  how 
much  of  possible  good  may  exist  in  things  evil  and 
perverted — how  much  hope  there  is  for  those  who 
despair — how  much  comfort  for  those  whom  a 
heartless  world  has  taught  to  contemn  both  others 
and  themselves,  and  so  put  barriers  to  the  hard, 
cold,  selfish,  mocking,  and  levelling  spirit  of  the  day 
O  would  I  could  do  this  I 


On  the  same  principle,  I  suppose,  that  they  have 
changed  the  treatment  of  lunatics;  and  whereas 
they  used  to  condemn  poor  distempered  wretches 
to  straw  and  darkness,  stripes  and  a  strait  waist- 
coat, they  now  send  them  to  sunshine  and  green 
fields,  to  wander  in  gardens  among  birds  and 
flowers,  and  soothe  them  with  soft  music  and  kind 
flattering  speech. 


Yoa  laugh  at  me !  perhaps  I  deserve  it 


No,  in  truth;  I  am  a  little  amused,  but  mos* 
honestly  attentive :  and  perhaps  wish  I  could  thmk 
•lore  like  you.    But  to  proceed :  I  allow  that  with 


INTRODUCTION.  H 

this  view  of  the  case,  you  could  not  well  bare 
ehosea  your  illustrations  from  real  life ;  but  why 
not  from  history  ? 

ALDA. 

As  far  as  history  could  guide  me,  I  have  taken 
her  with  me  in  one  or  two  recent  publications! 
which  all  tend  to  the  same  object.  Nor  have  1 
here  lost  sight  of  her ;  but  I  have  entered  on  a  land 
where  she  alone  is  not  to  be  trusted,  and  may  make 
a  pleasant  companion  but  a  most  fallacious  guide. 
To  drop  metaphor:  history  informs  us  that  such 
things  have  been  done  or  have  occurred ;  but  when 
we  come  to  inquire  into  motives  and  characters,  it 
is  the  most  false  and  partial  and  unsatisfactory 
authority  we  can  refer  to.  Women  are  illustrious 
m  history,  not  from  what  they  have  been  in  them- 
selves, but  generally  in  proportion  to  the  mischief 
they  have  done  or  caused.  Those  characters  best 
fitted  to  my  purpose  are  precisely  those  of  which 
history  never  heard,  or  disdains  to  speak ;  of  those 
which  have  been  handed  down  to  us  by  many  dif- 
ferent authorities  under  different  aspects  we  cannot 
judge  without  prejudice;  in  others  there  occur 
certain  chasms  which  it  is  difficult  to  supply ;  and 
hence  inconsistencies  we  have  no  means  of  recon- 
ciling, though  doubtless  they  might  be  recotciled 
if  we  knew  the  whole,  instead  of  a  part 

MEDOU 

Bat  instance — instance  I 


tS  INTBODUCTIOIT. 

ALDA. 

Examples  crowd  upon  me;  but  take  tbe  ftrai 
that  occurs.  Do  you  remember  that  Duchesse  de 
Longueville,  whose  beautiful  picture  we  were  look- 
ing at  yesterday  ? — the  heroine  of  the  Fronde  ? — 
think  of  that  woman — bold,  intriguing,  profligate, 
vain,  ambitious,  factious ! — who  made  men  rebels 
with  a  smile ; — or  if  that  were  not  enough,  the  lady 
was  not  scrupulous,  apparently  without  principle 
as  without  shame,  nothing  was  too  much !  And 
then  think  of  the  same  woman  protecting  the  vir- 
tuous philosopher  Arnauld,  when  he  was  denounced 
and  condemned ;  and  from  motives  which  her  worst 
enemies  could  not  malign,  secreting  him  in  her 
house,  unknown  even  to  her  own  servants — pre- 
paring his  food  herself,  watching  for  his  safety,  and 
at  length  saving  him.  Her  tenderness,  her  pa- 
tience, her  discretion,  her  disinterested  benevolence, 
not  only  defied  danger,  (that  were  little  to  a  woman 
of  her  temper,)  but  endured  a  lengthened  trial,  all 
the  ennui  caused  by  the  necessity  of  keeping  her 
house,  continual  self-control,  and  the  thousand  small 
daily  sacrifices  which,  to  a  vain,  dissipated,  proud, 
impatient  woman,  must  have  been  hard  to  bear. 
Now  if  Shakspeare  had  drawn  the  character  of  the 
Duchesse  de  Longueville,  he  would  have  shown  \in 
the  same  individual  woman  in  both  situations : — for 
the  same  being,  with  the  same  faculties,  and  pa* 
lions,  and  powers,  it  surely  was :  whereas  in  hi* 
tory,  we  see  in  one  case  a  fury  of  discord,  a  womav 
without  modesty  or  pity ;  and  in  the  other  an  ango 


rNTRODTJCTION.  ii 

»f  benevolence,  and  a  worsliipper  of  goodness ;  and 
nothing  to  connect  the  two  extremes  in  our  fancy. 


But  these  are  contradictions  which  we  meet  on 
every  page  of  history,  which  make  us  giddy  with 
doubt,  or  sick  with  belief,  and  are  the  proper  sub- 
jects of  inquiry  for  the  moralist  and  the  philosopher 


I  cannot  say  that  professed  moralists  and  philos- 
ophers did  much  to  help  me  out  of  the  dilemma ; 
but  the  riddle  which  history  presented  I  found 
solved  in  the  pages  of  Shakspeare.  There  the 
crooked  appeared  straight;  the  inaccessible,  easy; 
the  incomprehensible,  plain.  All  I  sought,  I  found 
there ;  his  characters  combine  history  and  real  life  ; 
they  are  complete  individuals,  whose  hearts  and 
Bouls  are  laid  open  before  us :  all  may  behold,  and 
all  judge  for  themselves. 

MEDON. 

But  all  win  not  judge  alike 


No;  and  herein  lies  a  part  of  their  wonderful 
jrutb.  We  hear  Shakspeare's  men  and  women  dis- 
cussed, praised  and  dispraised,  liked,  disliked,  aa 
real  human  beings ;  and  in  forming  our  opinions  of 
them,  we  are  influenced  by  our  own  characters, 
habits  of  thought,  prejudices,  feelings,  impulses,  just 


M  INTRODUCTION. 

■8  we  are  influenced  with  regard  to  our  acquainfr 
ances  and  associates. 

HEDOM. 

But  we  are  then  as  likely  to  misconceive  and 
misjudge  them. 

ALDA. 

Yes,  if  we  had  only  the  same  imperfect  means  ol 
studying  them.  But  we  can  do  with  them  what  we 
cannot  do  with  real  people:  we  can  unfold  the 
whole  character  before  us,  stripped  of  all  preten- 
sions of  self-love,  all  disguises  of  manner.  We  can 
take  leisure  to  examine,  to  analyze,  to  correct  our 
own  impressions,  to  watch  the  rise  and  progress  of 
various  passions — we  can  hate,  love,  approve,  con- 
demn, without  offence  to  others,  without  pain  to 
ourselves. 

HEDOM. 

In  this  respect  they  may  be  compared  to  those 
exquisite  anatomical  preparations  of  wax,  which 
those  who  could  not  without  disgust  and  horror  dis- 
sect a  real  specimen,  may  study,  and  learn  the 
mysteries  of  our  frame,  and  all  the  internal  work« 
ings  of  the  wondrous  machine  of  life. 

t  ALDA. 

And  it  is  the  safer  and  the  better  way — for  us  at 
Seast  But  look — that  brilliant  r^n-drop  trembling 
chero  in  the  sunshine  suggests  to  me  another  illu» 
tratioQ.    Passion,  when  we  contemplate  /  Utrouirh 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

the  medium  of  imaginatlcn,  is  like  a  ray  of  lighl 
transmitted  through  a  prism;  we  can  cahnly, 
lind  with  undazzled  eye,  study  its  complicate  na- 
ture, and  analyze  its  variety  of  tints ;  but  passion 
brought  home  to  us  in  its  reality,  through  our  own 
feelings  and  experience,  is  like  the  same  ray  trans- 
mitted through  a  lens, — blinding,  burning,  consiim  • 
ing  where  it  falls. 

MEDON. 

Your  illustration  is  the  most  poetical,  I  allow ; 
but  not  the  most  just.  But  tell  me,  is  the  ground 
you  have  taken  sufficiently  large  ? — is  the  founda- 
tion you  have  chosen  strong  enough  to  bear  the 
moral  superstructure  you  raise  upon  it  ?  You  know 
the  prevalent  idea  is,  that  Shakspeare's  women  are 
inferior  to  his  men.  This  assertion  is  constantly 
repeated,  and  has  been  but  tamely  refuted. 

ALDA. 

Professor  Richardson  V — 

MEDOX. 

He  is  as  dry  as  a  stick,  and  his  refutation  not 
successful  even  as  a  piece  of  logic.  Then  it  is  not 
sufficient  for  critics  to  assert  this  inferiority  and 
want  of  variety :  they  first  assume  the  fallacy,  then 
»rgue  upon  it  Gibber  accounts  for  it  from  the 
circumstance  that  all  the  female  parts  in  Shak- 
•peare's  time  were  acted  by  boys — there  were  no 
vomen  on  tb  3  stage ;  and  Mackenzie,  who  ought 
ko  have  known  better,  says  that  he  was  not  so  happy 


K  mxBODucTioir. 

in  his  delineatious  of  love  and  tenderness,  as  of  th* 
other  passions;  because,  forsooth,  the  majesty  of 
his  genius  could  not  stoop  to  the  refinements  of  del- 
icacy ; — ^preposterous ! 

ALDA. 

Stay  I  before  we  waste  epithets  of  indignation, 
let  us  consider.  If  these  people  mean  that  Shak- 
•peare's  women  are  inferior  in  power  to  his  men,  I 
grant  it  at  once ;  for  in  Shakspeare  the  male  ana 
female  characters  bear  precisely  the  same  relation 
to  each  other  that  they  do  in  nature  and  in  society 
— they  are  not  equal  in  prominence  or  in  power — 
they  are  subordinate  throughout  Richardson  re- 
marks, that  '^  if  situation  influences  the  mind,  and 
if  uniformity  of  conduct  be  frequently  occasioned 
by  uniformity  of  condition,  there  must  be  a  greater 
diversity  of  male  than  of  female  characters," — 
which  is  true ;  add  to  this  our  limited  sphere  of 
action,  consequently  of  experience, — the  habits  of 
self-control  rendering  the  outward  distinctions  of 
character  and  passion  less  striking  and  less  strong 
—all  this  we  see  in  Shakspeare  as  in  nature :  foi 
instance,  JuHet  is  the  most  impassioned  of  tb« 
female  characters,  but  what  are  her  passions  con* 
glared  to  those  which  shake  the  soul  of  Othello  ? 

"  Even  as  the  dew-drop  on  the  myrtle-leaf 
To  the  vex'd  sea." 

Look  at  Constance,  frantic  for  the  loss  of  her  son— 
Ifaen  look  at  Lear,  maddened  by  the  ingratitude  ol 


INTRODUCTION.  27 

kia  daugLters:  why  it  is  the  west  -mncl  bowing 
those  aspen  tops  that  wave  before  our  window, 
compared  to  the  tropic  hurricane,  when  forests 
crash  and  burn,  and  mountains  tremble  to  their 
bases! 

HBDOK. 

True ;  and  Lady  Macbeth,  with  all  her  soaring 
ambition,  her  vigor  of  intellect,  her  subtlety,  her 
courage,  and  her  cruelty — what  is  she,  compared  to 
Richard  HI.  ? 

AID  A. 

I  will  tell  you  what  she  is — she  is  a  woman. 
Place  Lady  Macbeth  in  comparison  with  Richard 
in.,  and  you  see  at  once  the  essential  distinction 
between  masculine  and  feminine  ambition — though 
both  in  extreme,  and  overleaping  all  restraints  of 
conscience  or  mercy.  Richard  says  of  himself,  that 
he  has  "  neither  pity,  love,  nor  fear : "  Lady  Mac- 
beth is  susceptible  of  all  three.  You  smile !  but 
that  remains  to  be  proved.  The  reason  that  Shak- 
speare's  wicked  women  have  such  a  singular  hold 
upon  our  fancy,  is  from  the  consistent  preservation 
of  the  feminine  character,  which  renders  them  more 
terrible,  because  more  credible  and  intelligible — 
not  like  those  monstrous  caricatures  we  meet  with 
in  history — 

MKDOH. 

In  history  V — ^this  is  new  1 

AIJ>A. 

Yes  I  I  repeat,  in  bistorv,  where  certidn  isolatiCd 


£8  INTRODUCTION. 

bets  and  actions  are  recorded,  witliout  any  rela 
tion  to  causes,  or  motives,  or  connecting  feelings 
and  pictures  exhibited,  from  which  the  considerate 
mind  turns  in  disgust,  and  the  feeling  heart  has  no 
relief  but  in  positive,  and  I  may  add,  reasonable 
incredulity.  I  have  lately  seen  one  of  Correggio'a 
finest  pictures,  in  which  the  three  Furies  are  repre- 
sented, not  as  ghastly  deformed  hags,  with  talona 
and  torches,  and  snaky  hair,  but  as  young  women, 
with  fine  luxuriant  forms  and  regular  features,  and 
a  single  serpent  wreathing  the  tresses  like  a  ban- 
deau— but  such  countenances ! — such  a  hideous  ex- 
pression of  malice,  cunning,  and  cruelty! — and  the 
effect  is  beyond  conception  appalling.  Leonardo 
da  Vinci  worked  upon  the  same  grand  principle  oi 
art  in  his  Medusa — 

Where  it  is  less  the  horror  than  the  grace 
Which  turns  the  gazer's  spirit  into  stone^ 

«  «  «  «  « 

'Tis  the  melodious  tints  of  beauty  thrown 
Athwart  the  hue  of  guilt  and  glare  of  pain, 
That  humanize  and  harmonize  the  strain. 

And  Shakspeare,  who  understood  all  truth,  worked 
out  his  conceptions  on  the  same  principle,  having 
Baid  himself,  that  "  proper  deformity  shows  not  in 
the  fiend  sc  horrid  as  in  women."  Hence  it  is  that 
whether  he  portrayed  the  wickedness  founded  in 
perverted  power,  as  in  Lady  Macbeth;  or  th« 
wickedness  founded  in  weakness,  a.s  in  Gertrude 
Lady  Apne,  or  Cressida,  he  is  the  more  fearfully 


INTRODUCTION.  2S 

jnpressive,  because  we  cannot  claim  for  ourselvet 
»n  exemption  from  the  same  nature,  before  which, 
m  its  corrupted  state,  we  tremble  with  horror  07 
shrink  with  disgust 


Do  you  remember  that  some  of  the  commentatora 
of  Shakspeare  have  thought  it  inciunbent  on  their 
gallantry  to  express  their  utter  contempt  for  the 
scene  between  Richard  and  Lady  Anne,  as  a  mon- 
strous and  incredible  libel  on  your  sex  ? 

ALDA. 

They  might  have  spared  themselves  the  trouble. 
Lady  Anne  is  just  one  of  those  women  whom  we 
see  walking  in  crowds  through  the  drawing-rooma 
of  the  world — the  puppets  of  habit,  the  fools  of  for- 
tune, without  any  particular  inclination  for  vice,  or 
any  steady  principle  of  virtue ;  whose  actions  are 
inspired  by  vanity,  not  affection,  and  regulated  by 
opinion,  not  by  conscience:  who  are  good  while 
there  is  no  temptation  to  be  otherwise,  and  ready 
victims  of  the  first  soliciting  to  evil.  In  the  case  of 
Lady  Anne,  we  are  startled  by  the  situation  :  not 
three  months  a  widow,  and  following  to  the  sep- 
ulchre the  remains  of  a  husband  and  a  father,  she 
b  met  and  wooed  and  won  by  the  very  man  who 
vaurdered  them.  In  such  a  case  it  required  perhaps 
either  Richard  or  the  arch-fiend  himself  to  tempi 
ber  successfully ;  but  in  a  less  critical  moment,  a 
^  less  subtle  and  audacious  seducer  woul  1  hay« 


M  INTRODUCTION 

lufficed.  Cresslda  Is  another  modification  of  ramtj 
weakness,  and  falsehood,  drawn  in  stronger  colors. 
The  world  contains  many  Lady  Annes  and  Cres* 
fildas,  polished  and  refined  externally,  whom  chance 
and  vanity  keep  right,  whom  chance  and  vanity 
lead  wrong,  just  as  it  may  happen.  When  we  read 
in  history  of  the  enormities  of  certain  women,  per- 
fect scarecrows  and  ogresses,  we  can  safely,  like  the 
Pharisee  in  Scripture,  hug  ourselves  in  our  secure 
virtue,  and  thank  God  that  we  are  not  as  others 
are — but  the  wicked  women  in  Shakspeare  are 
portrayed  with  such  perfect  consistency  and  truth, 
that  they  leave  us  no  such  resource — they  frighten 
us  into  reflection  —  they  make  us  believe  and 
tremble.  On  the  other  hand,  his  amiable  women 
are  touched  with  such  exquisite  simplicity — they 
have  so  Uttle  external  pretensions — and  are  so  un- 
like the  usual  heroines  of  tragedy  and  romance, 
that  they  delight  us  more  "  than  all  the  nonsense 
of  the  beau-ideal ! "  We  are  flattered  by  the  per- 
ception of  our  own  nature  in  the  midst  of  so  many 
charms  and  virtues:  not  only  are  they  what  we 
could  wish  to  be,  or  ought  to  be,  but  what  we  per- 
suade ourselves  we  might  be,  or  would  be,  under  a 
diflerent  and  a  happier  state  of  things,  and,  per- 
haps, some  time  or  other  may  be.  They  are  not 
Ituck  up,  like  the  cardinal  virtues,  all  In  a  row,  tor 
08  to  admire  and  wonder  at — they  are  not  mer« 
poetical  abstractions — nor  (as  they  have  beet 
termed)  mere  abstractions  of  the  affections, — 
Bat  common  clay  ta'en  firom  the  common  Mitli, 


LNTEODUCTION.  II 

Moulded  by  God,  and  tempered  by  the  tears 
Of  augels,  to  the  perfect  form  of— awmon. 

MEDON. 

Beautiful  lines  I — Where  are  they  ? 


I  quote  from  memory,  and  I  am  afraid  ina^jCB' 
rately,  from  a  poem  of  Alfred  Tennyson's. 

MEDON. 

Well,  between  argument,  and  sentiment,  and 
logic,  and  poetry,  you  are  making  out  a  very 
plausible  case.  I  think  with  you  that,  in  the  in- 
stances you  have  mentioned,  (as  Lady  Macbeth 
and  Richard,  Juliet,  and  Othello,  and  others,)  the 
want  of  comparative  power  is  only  an  additional 
excellence ;  but  to  go  to  an  opposite  exti-eme  of 
delineation,  we  must  allow  that  there  is  not  one  of 
Shakspeare's  women  that,  as  a  dramatic  character, 
can  be  compared  to  FalstafF. 

ALDA. 

No ;  because  any  thing  like  Falstaflf  in  the  form 
of  woman — any  such  compound  of  wit,  sensuality, 
and  selfishness,  unchecked  by  the  moral  senti- 
ments and  the  affections,  and  touched  with  the 
same  vigorous  painting,  would  be  a  gross  and 
monstrous  caricature.  If  it  could  exist  in  nature, 
we  might  find  it  in  Shakspeare ;  but  a  moment*! 
reflection  shows  us  that  it  would  be  essentially  an 
impoBsible  combination  of  faculties  in  a  female. 


ty  INTEODUCTIOW. 


It  strikes  me,  however,  that  his  humorous  women 
»re  feebly  drawn,  in  comparison  with  some  of  the 
female  wits  of  other  writers. 

ALDA. 

Because  his  women  of  wit  and  humor  are  not 
introduced  for  the  sole  purpose  of  saying  brilliant 
things,  and  displaying  the  wit  of  the  author ;  they 
are,  as  I  will  show  you,  real,  natural  women,  in 
whom  wit  is  only  a  particular  and  occasional  modi- 
fication of  intellect.  They  are  all,  in  the  first 
place,  affectionate,  thinking  beings,  and  moral 
agents;  and  then  witty,  as  if  by  accident,  or  as 
the  Duchesse  de  Chaulnes  said  of  herself,  "  par  la 
grace  de  Dieu."  As  to  humor,  it  is  carried  as  far 
as  possible  in  Mrs.  Quickly;  in  the  termagant 
Catherine ;  in  Maria,  in  "  Twelfth  Night ; "  in 
Juliet's  nurse ;  in  Mrs.  Ford  and  Mrs.  Page.  What 
can  exceed  in  humorous  naivete,  Mrs.  Quickly*8 
upbraiding  FalstafF,  and  her  concluding  appeal — 
"  Didst  thou  not  kiss  me,  and  bid  me  fetch  thee 
thirty  shillings  ?  "  Is  it  not  exquisite — irresistible  ? 
Mrs.  Ford  and  Mrs.  Page  are  both  "  merry  wives,'' 
but  how  perfectly  discriminated  I  Mrs.  Ford  has 
the  most  good  nature — Mrs.  Page  is  the  cleverer 
of  the  two,  and  has  more  sharpness  in  her  tongue, 
more  mischief  in  her  mirth.  In  all  these  instancei 
I  allow  that  the  humor  is  more  or  less  vulgar ;  bu* 
a  humorous  woman,  whether  in  high  or  low  life 
kas  always  a  tinge  of  vulgarity. 


INTRODUCTION.  18 

MKDOS. 

I  should  like  to  see  that  word  vulgar  propcrij 
defined,  and  its  meaning  limited — at  present  it  ia 
the  most  arbitrary  word  in  the  language. 

ALDA. 

Yes,  like  the  word  romantic,  it  is  a  convenient 
"  exploding  word,"  and  in  its  general  application 
signifies  nothing  more  than  "  see  how  much  finer  I 
am  than  other  people  I "  *  but  in  literature  and 
character  I  shall  adhere  to  the  definition  of  Mar 
dame  de  Stael,  who  uses  the  word  vulgar  as  the 
reverse  o? poetical.  Vulgarity  (as  I  wish  to  apply 
the  word)  is  the  negative  in  all  things.  In  litera- 
ture, it  is  the  total  absence  of  elevation  and  depth 
in  the  ideas,  and  of  elegance  and  dellcaA^y  in  the 
expression  of  them.  In  character,  it  is  the  absence 
of  truth,  sensibility,  and  reflection.  The  vulgar  in 
manner,  is  the  result  of  vulgarity  of  character ;  it 
is  grossness,  hardness,  or  afiectation. — ^If  you  would 
see  how  Shakspeare  has  discriminated,  not  only 
different  degrees,  but  different  kinds  of  plebeian 
vulgarity  in  women,  you  have  only  to  compare  the 
nurse  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  with  Mrs.  Quickly. 
On  the  whole,  if  there  are  people  who,  taking  the 
strong  and  essential  distinction  of  sex  into  con- 
rideratlon,  still  maintain  that  Shakspeare's  female 
characters  are  not,  in  truth,  in  variety,  in  power 


*  See  Foster's  Bssay  on  the  \ppllcation  of  the  word  romamtU 
^Essays,  toI.  I 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

eqaal  to  lils  men,  1  think  I  shall  prove  the  coo' 
Irary. 

MEDON. 

I  observe  that  you  have  divided  your  illostra* 
tions  into  classes ;  but  shades  of  character  so  raelt 
into  each  other,  and  the  various  faculties  and 
powers  are  so  blended  and  balanced,  that  all  class- 
ification must  be  arbitrary.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  con- 
ceive where  you  have  drawn  the  line ;  here,  at  the 
head  of  your  first  chai)ter,  I  find  '•  Characters  of 
Intellect" — do  you  call  Portia  intellectual,  and 
Hermione  and  Constance  not  so  ? 


I  know  that  Schlegel  has  said  that  it  is  impossible 
to  arrange  Shakspeare's  characters  in  classes :  yet 
some  classification  was  necessary  for  my  purpose. 
I  have  therefore  divided  them  into  characters  in 
which  intellect  and  wit  predominate;  characters 
in  which  fancy  and  passion  predominate;  and 
characters  in  which  the  moral  sentiments  and 
affections  predominate.  The  historical  characters 
I  have  considered  apart,  as  requiring  a  different 
mode  of  illustration.  Portia  I  regard  as  a  perfect 
model  of  an  intellectual  woman,  in  whom  wit  is 
tempered  by  sensibility,  and  fancy  regulated  by 
strong  reflection.  It  is  objected  to  her,  to  Bea- 
trice, and  others  of  Shakspeare's  women,  that  the 
display  of  intellect  is  tinged  with  a  coarseness  of 
manner  belonging  to  the  age  in  which  he  wrotft 
To  remark  that  the  conversation  and  letters  0/ 


INTRODUCTION.  3J 

highbijd  and  virtuous  women  of  that  time  were 
Bcore  bold  and  frank  in  expression  than  any  part 
of  the  dialogue  appropriated  to  Beatrice  and  Rosa- 
lind, m!j/  excuse  it  to  our  judgment,  but  does  not 
reconcile  it  to  our  taste.  Much  has  been  said,  and 
more  might  be  said  on  this  subject — but  I  would 
rather  not  discuss  it.  It  is  a  mere  diiference  of 
manner  which  is  to  be  regretted,  but  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  essence  of  the  character. 


I  tliink  you  have  done  well  in  avoiding  the  topic 
altogether;  but  between  ourselves,  do  you  really 
think  that  the  refinement  of  manner,  the  cen- 
sorious, hypocritical,  verbal  scrupulosity,  which  is 
carried  so  far  in  this  "  picked  age  "  of  ours,  is  a 
true  sign  of  superior  refinement  of  taste,  and 
purity  of  morals?  Is  it  not -rather  a  whiting  of 
the  sepulchre  ?  I  vdll  not  even  allude  to  indi- 
vidual instances  whom  we  both  know,  but  does  it 
not  remind  you,  on  the  whole,  of  the  tone  of 
French  manners  previous  to  the  revolution — that 
"d^cence,"  which  Horace  Walpole  so  aflmired,* 
\-eiling  the  moral  degradation,  the  inconceivable 
profligacy  of  the  higher  classes? — Stay — I  have 
not  yet  done — not  to  you,  but  ybr  you,  I  will  add 
ihus  much ; — our  modern  idea  of  delicacy  appaiv 
ently  attaches  more  importance  to  words  than  tc 
things — to  manners  than  to  morals.    You  will  bear 

*  Oorrespondeucv,  vol.  IM. 


It  INTRODUCTION. 

people  inveigb  against  the  improprieties  of  Shak* 
ipeare,  with  Don  Juan,  or  one  of  those  infernal 
French  novels — I  beg  your  pardon — lying  on  theb* 
tf  ilet  table.  Lady  Florence  is  shocked  at  the  sal- 
lies of  Beatrice,  and  Beatrice  would  certainly  stand 
aghast  to  see  Lady  Florence  dressed  for  Almack's 
so  you  see  that  in  both  cases  the  fashion  makes 
the  indecorum  Let  her  ladyship  new  model  her 
gowns ! 

ALDA. 

Well,  well,  Jsave  Lady  Florence — 1  would  rather 
hear  you  defend  Shakspeare. 


1  think  it  is  Coleridge  who  so  finely  observes 
that  Shakspeare  ever  kept  the  high  road  of  human 
life,  whereon  all  travel,  that  he  did  not  pick  out 
by-paths  of  feeling  and  sentiment ;  in  him  we  have 
no  moral  highwaymen,  and  sentimental  thieves 
and  rat-catchers,  and  interesting  villains,  and  ami- 
able, elegant  adulteresses — h-la-mode  Germanorum 
— ^no  delicate  entanglements  of  situation,  in  which 
the  grossest  images  are  presented  to  the  mind 
disguised  under  the  superficial  attraction  of  style 
and  sentiment  He  flattered  no  bad  passion,  dis- 
guised no  vice  in  the  garb  of  virtue,  trifled  with 
with  no  just  and  generous  principle.  He  can 
make  us  laugh  at  folly,  and  shudder  at  crime,  yet 
rtill  preserve  our  love  for  our  fellow-beings,  and 
Bur  reverence  for  ourselves.  He  has  a  lofty  and  a 
fearless  trust  in  his  own  powers,  and  in  the  beauts 


INTRODUCTION  87 

ftnd  excellence  of  virtue ;  and  with  his  eye  fixed 
on  the  lode-star  of  truth,  steers  us  triumphantly 
unong  shoals  and  quicksands,  where  with  any- 
other  pilot  we  had  been  wrecked : — for  instance, 
who  but  himself  would  have  dared  to  bring  into 
close  contact  two  such  characters  as  lago  and 
Desdemona?  Had  the  colors  in  which  he  has 
arrayed  Desdemona  been  one  atom  less  ti'anspar*- 
ently  bright  and  pure,  the  charm  had  been  lost ; 
ghe  could  not  have  borne  the  approximation: 
some  shadow  from  the  overpowering  blackness 
of  his  character  must  have  passed  over  the  sun- 
bright  purity  of  hers.  For  observe  that  lago'a 
disbehef  in  the  virtue  of  Desdemona  is  not  pre- 
tended, it  is  real.  It  arises  from  his  total  want  of 
faith  in  all  virtue ;  he  is  no  more  capable  of  con- 
ceiving goodness  than  she  is  capable  of  conceiv- 
ing evil.  To  the  brutish  coarseness  and  fiendish 
malignity  of  this  man,  her  gentleness  appears  only 
a  contemptible  weakness ;  her  purity  of  affection, 
which  saw  "  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind,"  only  a 
perversion  of  taste ;  her  bashful  modesty,  only  a 
cloak  for  evil  propensities ;  so  he  represents  them 
with  all  the  force  of  language  and  self-conviction, 
and  we  are  obliged  to  listen  to  him.  He  rips  her 
to  pieces  before  us — he  would  have  bedeviled  an 
angel  I  yet  such  is  the  unrivalled,  though  passive 
delicacy  of  the  delineation,  that  it  can  stand  it 
tnhurt,  untouched  I  It  is  wonderful ! — yet  natura, 
M  !t  is  wonderful  J  Af*sr  ali,  there  are  people  ia 
4ie  world,  whose  opinions  and  feehngs  are  tain  tec 


18  INTRODUCTION. 

iy  an  habitual  acquaintance  with  the  evil  side  ol 
lociety,  though  in  action  and  intention  they  remain 
right;  and  who,  without  the  real  depravity  of 
heart  and  malignity  of  intention  of  lago,  judge  aa 
he  does  of  the  character  and  productions  of  others. 

ALDA. 

Heaven  bless  me  from  such  critics !  yet  if  genius, 
youth,  and  innocence  could  not  escape  unslurred, 
can  I  hope  to  do  so  ?  I  pity  from  my  soul  the 
persons  you  allude  to — for  to  such  minds  there  can 
exist  few  uncontaminatcd  sources  of  pleasure 
either  in  nature  or  in  art. 

MEDON. 

Ay — "  the  perfumes  of  Paradise  were  poison  to 
the  Dives,  and  made  them  melancholy."*  "Sou 
pity  them,  and  they  will  sneer  at  you.  But  what 
have  we  here  ? — "  Characters  of  Imagination — 
Juliet — Viola;"  are  these  romantic  young  ladies 
the  pillars  wliich  are  to  sustain  your  moral  edifice  ? 
Are  they  to  serve  as  examples  or  as  warnings  fta 
Bjc  youth  of  this  enlightened  age  ? 

ALDA. 

Aa  warnings,  of  course — what  else  ? 

MEDON. 

Against  the  dangers  of  romance? — bat  when 
*  An  Oriental  pro7«rb 


INIRODUCTIOX-  89 

ue  they?  "  Vraiment,"  as  B.  Constant  says,  "je 
ae  vois  pas  qu'en  fait  d'entliousiasme,  le  feu  solt  k 
la  malson."  "Where  are  they — these  disciples  of 
poetry  and  romance,  these  victims  of  disinterested 
devotion  and  believing  truth,  these  unblown  roses 
— all  conscience  and  tenderness — whom  it  is  sc 
necessary  to  guard  against  too  much  confidence  in 
others,  and  too  Uttle  in  themselves — where  are 
they? 

ALDA. 

Wandering  in  the  Elysian  fields,  I  presume, 
with  the  romantic  young  gentlemen  who  are  too 
generous,  too  zealous  in  defence  of  innocence,  too 
enthusiastic  in  their  admiration  of  virtue,  too  vio- 
lent in  their  hatred  of  vice,  too  sincere  in  friend- 
ship, too  faithful  in  love,  too  active  and  disinterested 
in  the  cause  of  truth — 

MEDON. 

Very  fair !  But  seriously,  do  you  think  it  neces- 
sary to  guard  young  people,  in  this  selfish  and  cal- 
culating age,  against  an  excess  of  sentiment  and 
imagination  ?  Do  you  allow  no  distinction  between 
the  romance  of  exaggerated  sentiment,  and  the 
romance  of  elevated  thought  ?  Do  you  bring  cold 
water  to  quench  the  smouldering  ashes  of  enthu- 
liasm?  Methlnks  it  is  rather  superfluous;  and 
ttiat  another  doctrine  is  needed  to  withstand  the 
•icartless  system  of  expediency  which  is  the  favorite 
ohilosophy  of  the  day.  The  warning  you  speak  of 
Kay  be  gently  hinted  to  the  few  who  are  in  dange* 


iO  LNTRODUCTIOW. 

t£  being  misled  by  an  excess  of  the  generous  im- 
pulses of  fancy  and  feeling;  but  need  hardly,  I 
think,  be  procl^umed  by  sound  of  trumpet  amid 
the  mocks  of  the  world-  No,  no ;  there  are  young 
women  in  these  days,  but  there  is  no  such  thing  aa 
youth — the  bloom  of  existence  is  sacrificed  to  a 
fashionable  education,  and  where  we  should  find 
the  rose-buds  of  the  spring,  we  see  only  the  fiiU- 
blown,  flaunting,  pi-ecocious  roses  of  the  hot-bed. 


Blame  then  ihaA/orciny  system  of  education,  the 
most  pernicious,  the  most  mistaken,  the  most  far- 
reaching  in  its  miserable  and  mischievous  effects, 
that  ever  prevailed  in  this  world.  The  custom 
which  shut  up  women  in  convents  till  they  were 
married,  and  then  launched  them  innocent  and 
ignorant  on  society,  was  bad  enough ;  but  not  worse 
than  a  system  of  education  which  inundates  us  with 
hard,  clever,  sophisticated  girls,  trained  by  know- 
ing mothers,  and  all-accomplished  governesses,  with 
whom  vanity  and  expediency  take  place  of  con- 
science and  affection — (in  other  words,  of  romance) 
—  "  frutto  senile  in  sul  giovenil  fiore ; "  with  feel« 
inga  and  passions  suppressed  or  contracted,  not 
governed  by  higher  faculties  and  purer  principles ; 
with  whom  opinion — the  same  false  honor  which 
•ends  men  out  to  fight  duels — stands  instead  of  the 
itrongth  and  the  hght  of  virtue  within  their  own 
■ouls.  Hence  the  strange  anomalies  of  artifici& 
lociety — girls  of  sixteen  who  are  models  of  manner 


rNTRODUCTION.  41 

Buracles  of  prudence,  marvels  of  learning,  who 
ineer  at  sentiment,  and  laugh  at  the  Juliets  and  the 
Imogens;  and  matrons  of  forty,  who,  when  th« 
passions  should  be  tame  and  wait  upon  the  judg- 
ment, amaze  the  world  and  put  us  to  confusion  with 
tneir  doings. 

MEDON. 

Or  turn  politicians  to  vary  the  excitement  — 
Uow  I  hate  political  women  I 

ALDA. 

Why  do  you  hate  them  ? 

MEDON. 

Because  they  are  mischievous. 

ALDA. 

But  why  are  they  mischievous  ? 

MEDON. 

Why ! — why  are  they  mischievous  ?  Nay,  ask 
them,  or  ask  the  father  of  aU  mischief,  who  has  not 
a  more  efficient  instnmient  to  further  his  designs  in 
this  world,  than  a  woman  run  mad  with  politics. 
The  number  of  political  intriguing  women  of  thia 
time,  whose  boudoirs  and  drawing-rooms  are  the 
foyers  of  party-spirit,  is  another  trait  of  resemblance 
l)etween  the  state  of  society  now,  and  that  which 
sjusted  at  Paris  before  the  revolution. 

ALDA. 

And  do  you  think,  like  some  interesting  young 


IS  INTRODUCTION. 

lady  in  Miss  Edgewortb's  tales,  that  "  women  haT« 
notbing  to  do  with  politics  ?  "  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  women  are  not  capable  of  comprehending  the 
principles  of  legislation,  or  of  feeling  an  interest  in 
the  government  and  welfare  of  their  country,  or  of 
perceiving  and  sympathizing  in  the  progress  ot 
great  events  ? — That  they  cannot  feel  patriotism  ? 
Believe  me,  when  we  do  feel  it,  our  patriotism,  like 
our  courage  and  our  love,  has  a  purer  source  than 
with  you ;  ibr  a  man's  patriotism  has  always  some 
ange  of  egotism,  while  a  woman's  patriotism  is  gen- 
erally a  sendment,  and  of  the  noblest  kind. 

MEDOM. 

I  agree  in  all  this ;  and  all  this  does  not  mitigate 
my  horror  of  political  women  in  general,  who  are, 
I  repeat  it,  both  mischievous  and  absurd  If  you 
could  but  hear  the  reasoning  in  these  feminine  co- 
teries ! but  you  never  talk  politics. 

ALDA. 

Indee<l  I  do,  when  I  can  get  any  one  to  listen  to 
me;  but  I  prefer  listening.  As  for  the  evil  you 
complain  of,  impute  it  to  that  imperfect  education 
which  at  once  cultivates  and  enslaves  the  intellect, 
and  loads  the  memory,  while  it  fetters  the  judgment 
Women,  however  well  read  in  history,  never  gen- 
eralize in  politics ;  never  argue  on  any  broad  ot 
general  principle ;  never  reason  from  a  considerfti 
lion  of  past  events,  their  causes  and  consequence* 
But  they  are  always  political  through  their  affeo 


INTKODUCTION.  48 

ions,  their  ])rcjudice3,  their  personal  liaisons,  their 
hopes,  theii'  fears. 

MEDOX. 

If  it  -were  no  %vor5e,  I  could  stand  it ;  for  that  II 
»t  least  feminine. 

ALDA. 

But  most  mischievous.  For  hence  it  Is  that  we 
make  such  blind  partisans,  such  violent  party  wo- 
mer,  and  such  wretched  politicians.  I  never  heard 
a  woman  talk  politics,  as  it  is  termed,  that  I  could 
not  discern  at  once  the  motive,  the  affection,  the 
secret  bias  which  swayed  her  opinions  and  inspired 
her  arguments.  If  it  appeared  to  the  Grecian  sage 
so  "  difficult  for  a  man  not  to  love  himself,  nor  the 
things  that  belong  to  him,  but  justice  only  V  " — how 
much  more  for  woman  I 

MEDON. 

Then  you  think  that  a  better  education,  based 
on  truer  moral  principles,  would  render  women 
more  reasonable  politicians,  or  at  least  give  their 
Home  right  to  meddle  with  politics  V 

ALDA. 

It  would  cease  in  that  case  to  be  meddling,  as  you 
term  it,  for  it  would  be  legitimized.  It  is  easy  to 
ineer  at  political  ann  mathematical  ladies,  and  quote 
Lord  Byron — but  O  leave  ^hose  angry  common- 
places to  others ! — they  d.i  not  come  well  from  you. 
Do  not  force  me  to  romuid  you,  that  women  hav« 


II  /NTKODUCTIOh. 

fcchieved  enough  to  silence  them  forever,*  and 
bow  often  must  that  truism  be  repeated,  that  it  ii 
not  a  woman's  attainments  which  make  her  amiable 
or  unaniiable,  estimable  or  the  contrary,  but  her 
ijualities  ?  A  time  is  coming,  perhaps,  when  the 
education  of  women  will  be  considered,  with  a  view 
to  their  future  destination  as  the  mothers  and  nursea 
of  legislators  and  statesmen,  and  the  cultivation  of 
their  powers  of  reflection  and  moral  feelings  super> 
icde  the  exciting  drudgery  by  which  they  are  now 
crammed  with  knowledge  and  accomplishments. 

MEDON. 

"Well— till  that  blessed  period  arrives,  I  wish  you 
would  leave  us  the  province  of  politics  to  ourselves. 
I  see  here  you  have  treated  of  a  very  different 
class  of  beings,  "  women  in  whom  the  affections  and 
the  moral  sentiments  predominate."  Are  there  mauT 
Buch,  think  you,  in  the  world  ? 

ALDA. 

Yes,  many  such ;  the  development  of  afTeetion 
and  sentiment  is  more  quiet  and  unobtrusive  than 
that  of  passion  and  intellect,  and  less  observed;  it 
is  more  common,  too,  therefore  less  remarked ;  bat 
in  women  it  generally  gives  the  prevailing  ton* 
to  the  character,  except  where  vanity  has  beea 
made  the  ruling  motive. 

•  In  our  own  time,  MacUine  de  Stafcl,  Mrs.  SomorrlUe,  Harrto* 
Uartineau,  Mrs.  Morcot ;  we  need  not  go  back  to  the  BoUnill 
»nd  Agnesi,  nor  even  to  our  own  Lucy  HutchinfOA. 


INTRODO'CTIOIs'.  44 

MEDON. 

Except  I  I  Admire  your  exception  I  You  make 
h.  this  case  the  rule  the  exception.  Look  round 
the  world, 

ALDA. 

Tou  are  not  one  of  those  with  whom  that  common 
phrase  "  the  world "  signifies  the  circle,  whatever 
and  wherever  that  may  be,  which  limits  our  indi- 
vidual expeiience — as  a  child  considers  the  visible 
horizon  as  the  baunds  which  shut  in  the  mighty 
universe.  Believe  me,  it  is  a  sorry,  vulgar  kind  of 
wisdom,  if  it  bo  wisdom — a  shallow  and  confined 
philosophy,  if  it  be  philosophy — which  resolves  all 
human  motives  and  impulses  into  egotism  in  one 
sex,  and  vanity  in  the  other.  Such  may  be  the 
way  of  the  world,  as  it  is  called — the  result  of  a 
very  artificial  and  corrupt  state  of  society,  but  such 
is  not  general  nature,  nor  female  nature.  Would 
you  see  the  kindly,  self-sacrificing  affections  de 
veloped  under  their  most  honest  but  least  poetical 
guise — displayed  without  any  mixture  of  vanity, 
and  unchecked  in  the  display  by  any  fear  of  being 
thought  vain  ? — ^you  will  see  it,  not  among  the  pros- 
perous, the  high-born,  the  educated,  "  far,  far  re- 
moved from  want,  and  grief,  and  fear,"  but  among 
the  poor,  the  miserable,  the  perverted — among 
those  habitually  exposed  to  all  influences  that 
harden  and  deprave. 


I  beliove  it — ^nay,  I  know  it ;  but  how  should  yot 


16  INTKODUCTION. 

know  it,  or  anything  of  the  strange  places  of  reftig« 
which  truth  and  nature  have  found  in  the  two  ex 
tremes  of  society  ? 

ALDA. 

It  is  no  matter  what  I  have  seen  or  known  ;  and 
for  the  two  extremes  of  society,  I  leave  them  to  the 
author  of  Paul  Clifford,  and  that  most  exquisitt 
painter  of  living  manners,  Mrs.  Gore.  St  Giles's 
is  no  more  nature  than  SL  James's.  I  wanted 
character  in  Its  essential  truth,  not  mortified  by 
particular  customs,  by  fashion,  by  situation.  1 
wished  to  illustrate  the  manner  in  which  the  affec- 
tions would  naturally  display  themselves  in  women 
— whether  combined  with  high  intellect,  regulated 
by  reflection,  and  elevated  by  imagination,  or  exist- 
ing with  perverted  dispositions,  or  purified  by  the 
moral  sentiments.  I  found  all  these  in  Shakspeare ; 
his  delineations  of  women,  in  whom  the  virtuous 
and  calm  affections  predominate,  and  triumph  ove? 
shame,  fear,  pride,  resentment,  vanity,  jealousy,— 
are  particularly  worthy  of  consideration,  and  per- 
fect in  their  kind,  because  so  quiet  in  their  effect. 

MEDON. 

Several  critics  have  remarked  in  general  tcrmi 
on  those  beautiful  pictures  of  female  friendship,  and 
of  the  generous  affection  of  women  for  each  other, 
which  we  find  in  Shakspeare.  Other  writers, 
especially  dramatic  writers,  have  found  ample  food 
for  wit  and  satiric  delineation  in  the  littleness  of 
%mmmo  spite  and  rivalry,  in  the  mean  spirit  0/ 


rNTKODtlCTION.  47 

jompetitioa,  the  petty  jealousy  of  superior  charms, 
the  mutual  slander  and  mistrust,  the  transient 
leagues  ol"  folly  or  selfishness  miscalled  friendship— 
the  result  of  an  education  wliieh  makes  vanity  the 
ruling  principle,  and  of  a  false  position  in  society. 
Shakspeare,  who  looked  upon  women  with  the 
spirit  of  humanity,  wisdom,  and  deep  love,  has  done 
justice  to  their  natural  good  tendencies  and  kindly 
Bympathies.  In  the  friendship  of  Beatrice  and 
Hero,  of  Rosalind  and  Celia ;  in  the  description  of 
the  girlish  attachment  of  Helena  and  Hermia,  he 
has  represented  truth  and  generous  affection  rising 
superior  to  all  the  usual  sources  of  female  rivalry 
and  jealousy ;  and  with  such  force  and  simplicity, 
and  obvious  self-conviction,  that  he  absolutely 
forces  the  same  conviction  on  us. 


Add  to  these  the  generous  feeling  of  Viola  for 
her  rival  Olivia ;  of  Julia  for  her  rival  Sylvia ;  of 
Helena  for  Diana ;  of  the  old  Countess  for  Helena, 
in  the  same  play ;  and  even  the  affection  of  the 
wicked  queen  in  Hamlet  for  the  gentle  Ophelia, 
which  prove  that  Shakspeare  thought — (and  when 
did  he  ever  think  other  than  the  truth?) — that 
women  have  by  nature  "  virtues  that  are  merciful," 
and  can  be  just,  tender,  and  true  to  their  sister 
women,  whatever  wits  and  worldlings,  and  satirist! 
ind  fashionable  poets,  may  say  or  sing  of  us  to  th» 
contrary.  There  is  another  thing  which  he  hai 
most  deeply  felt  and  beautifully  represented— the 


t8  INTBODUCTIOK. 

distinction  between  masculine  and  feminine  cour- 
age. A  man's  courage  is  often  a  mere  anima. 
quality,  and  in  its  most  elevated  form  a  point  of 
honor.  But  a  woman's  courage  is  always  a  virtue, 
because  it  is  not  required  of  us,  it  is  not  one  of  the 
means  through  which  we  seek  admiration  and  ap- 
plause ;  on  the  contrary,  we  are  courageous  through 
our  affections  and  mental  energies,  not  through  our 
vanity  or  our  strength.  A  woman's  heroism  is 
always  the  excess  of  sensibility.  Do  you  remember 
Lady  Fanshawe  putting  on  a  sailor's  jacket,  and 
his  "  blue  thrum  cap,"  and  standing  at  her  husband's 
side,  unknown  to  him  during  a  sea-fight  ?  There 
she  stood,  all  bathed  in  tears,  but  fixed  to  that  spot. 
Her  husband's  exclamation  when  he  turned  and 
discovered  her — "  Good  God,  that  love  should  make 
Buch  a  change  as  this ! "  is  applicable  to  all  the  acta 
of  courage  which  we  read  or  hear  of  in  women. 
This  is  the  courage  of  Juliet,  when,  after  summing 
up  all  the  possible  consequences  of  her  own  act,  till 
she  almost  maddens  herself  with  terror,  she  drinks 
the  sleeping  potion ;  and  for  that  passive  fortitude 
which  is  founded  in  piety  and  pure  strength  of  af^ 
fection,  such  as  the  heroism  of  Lady  Russel  and 
Gertrude  de  Wart,  he  has  given  us  some  of  the 
Doblest  modifications  of  it  in  Hermione,  in  Cordelia, 
in  Imogen,  in  Eatherine  of  Arragon. 

MKDON. 

And  what  do  you  catll  the  courage  of  Ladj  Maa 
Belli?— 


INTKODUCTlOli.  4t 

My  hands  are  of  your  color,  but  I  shaiiM 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white. 

And  again, 

A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed. 
How  easy  is  it  then  I 

11  thla  is  not  mere  masculine  indifference  to  blood 
and  deatb,  mere  firmness  of  nerve,  what  is  it? 

ALDA. 

Not  that,  at  least,  which  apparently  you  deem  it ; 
you  will  find,  if  you  have  patience  to  read  me  to 
the  end,  that  I  have  judged  Lady  Macbeth  very 
differently.  Take  these  frightful  passages  with  the 
context — take  the  whole  situation,  and  you  will  see 
that  it  is  no  such  thing.  A  friend  of  mine  truly 
observed,  that  if  Macbeth  had  been  a  ruffian  with- 
out any  qualms  of  conscience,  Lady  Macbeth  would 
have  been  the  one  to  shrink  and  tremble ;  but  that 
which  quenched  Mm  lent  her  fire.  The  absolute 
necessity  for  self-command,  the  strength  of  her  rea- 
son, and  her  love  for  her  husband,  combine  at  this 
critical  moment  to  conquer  aU  fear  but  the  fear  of 
detection,  leaving  her  the  full  possession  of  her  fac- 
ulties. Recollect  that  the  same  woman  who  speaks 
with  such  horrible  indifference  of  a  little  water 
clearing  the  blood-stain  from  her  hand,  sees  in  im- 
agination that  hand  forever  reeking,  forever  pol- 
uted :  and  when  reason  is  no  longer  awake  and 
paramount  over  the  violated  feelings  of  nature  and 
womanhood,  we  beh''»Id  her  making  unconscioui 

4 


OO  INTRODUCTION. 

efforts  to  wash  out  that  ''  damned  spot,"  and  sigb 
ing,  heart-broken,  over  that  little  hand  which  all  the 
perfumes  of  Arabia  will  never  sweeten  more. 


I  hope  you  have  given  her  a  place  among  tha 
women  in  whom  the  tender  affectiona  and  moral 
sentiments  predominate. 


You  laugh ;  but,  jesting  apart,  perhaps  it  would 
have  been  a  more  accurate  classification  than  plac- 
ing her  among  the  historical  characters. 


Apropos  to  the  historical  characters,  I  hope  yoa 
have  refuted  that  insolent  assumption,  (shall  I  call 
itV)  that  Shakspeare  tampered  inexcusably  with 
the  truth  of  history.  He  is  the  truest  of  all  his- 
torians. His  anachronisms  always  remind  me  of 
those  in  the  fine  old  Italian  pictures ;  either  they 
are  insignificant,  or,  if  properly  considered,  are 
really  beauties ;  for  instance,  every  one  knows  that 
Correggio's  St.  Jerome  presenting  his  books  to  the 
Virgin,  involves  half-a-dozen  anachronisms, — to 
«ay  notliing  of  that  heavenly  figure  of  the  Mag 
.ialon,  in  the  same  picture,  kissing  the  feet  of  th« 
infant  Saviour.  Some  have  ridiculed,  some  have 
txcused  this  strange  combination  of  inaccuracies 
but  is  it  less  one  of  the  divinest  pieces  of  senti* 
ment  and  poetry  that  ever  breathed  and  glowed 


urrBODucTiox.  51 

from  the  canvas  ?  You  remember  too  the  famous 
nativity  by  some  Neapolitan  painter,  -who  has 
placed  Mount  Vesu  vius  and  the  Bay  of  Naples  in 
the  background  ?  In  these  and  a  hundred  other 
instances,  no  one  seems  to  feel  that  the  apparent 
absurdity  involves  the  highest  truth,  and  that  the 
sacred  beings  thus  represented,  if  once  allowed  aa 
objects  of  faith  and  worship,  are  eternal  under 
ivevy  aspect,  and  independent  of  all  time  and  all 
locahty.  So  it  is  with  Shakspeare  and  his  ana- 
chronisms. The  learned  scorn  of  Johnson  and 
some  of  his  brotherhood  of  commentators,  and  the 
eloquent  defence  of  Schlegel,  seem  in  this  case 
superflupus.  If  he  chose  to  make  the  Delphic 
oracle  and  Julio  Komano  contemporary  —  what 
does  it  signify?  he  committed  no  anachronisms  of 
character.  He  has  not  metamorphosed  Cleopatra 
into  a  turtle-dove,  nor  Katherine  of  Arragon  into 
a  sentimental  heroine.  He  is  true  to  the  spirit 
and  even  to  the  letter  of  history;  where  he  de- 
viates from  the  latter,  the  reason  may  be  found  ia 
some  higher  beauty  and  more  universal  truth. 


I  have  proved  this,  I  think,  by  placing  parallel 
with  the  dramatic  character  all  the  historic  testi- 
mony I  could  collect  relative  to  Constance,  Cleo- 
patra, Katherine  of  Arragon,  &c. 


Analyzing  the  character  of  Cleopatra  must  have 


52  INTRODUCTION. 

been  sotndthing  like  catching  a  meteor  hy  the  tafl| 
Kid  mt.king  it  sit  for  its  picture. 


Something  like  it,  in  truth ;  but  those  of  Miranda 
and  Ophelia  were  more  embarrassing,  because  they 
seemed  to  defy  all  analysis.  It  was  like  intercept- 
ing the  dew-drop  or  the  snow-flake  ere  it  fell  to 
earth,  and  subjecting  it  to  a  chemical  process. 


Some  one  said  the  other  day  that  Shakspeare 
had  never  drawn  a  coquette.  ^Vhat  is  Cleopatra 
but  the  empress  and  type  of  all  the  coquettes  that 

ever  were — or  are  ?     She  would  put  Lady 

herself  to  school.    But  now  for  the  moral 

ALDA. 

The  moral  I — of  what  ? 

MKDON. 

Of  your  book.    It  has  a  moral,  1  suppose. 

ALDA. 

ft  has  indeed  a  very  deep  one,  which  those  who 
loek  will  find.  If  now  I  have  answered  all  your 
considerations  and  objections,  and  sufficiently  e** 
plained  my  own  views,  may  I  proceed  ? 

MEDOS. 

If  you  please — I  am  prepared  to  listen  in  ear 
■est. 


CHARACTERS  OF  INTELLEC?!. 

PORTIA. 

We  bear  it  asserted,  not  seldom  by  way  of  conf 
pliment  to  us  women,  that  intellect  is  of  no  sex. 
If  this  mean  that  the  same  faculties  of  mind  are 
common  to  men  and  women,  it  is  true;  in  any 
other  signification  it  appears  to  me  false,  and  the 
reverse  of  a  compliment.  The  intellect  of  woman 
bears  the  same  relation  to  that  of  man  as  her 
physical  organization ; — it  is  inferior  in  power, 
and  different  in  kind.  That  certain  women  have 
surpassed  certain  men  in  bodily  strength  or  intel- 
lectual energy,  does  not  contradict  the  general 
principle  founded  in  nature.  The  essential  and 
invariable  distinction  appears  to  me  this :  in  men 
the  intellectual  faculties  exist  more  self-poised  and 
self-directed — more  independent  of  the  rest  of  tho 
character,  than  we  ever  find  them  in  women,  with 
whom  talent,  however  predominant,  is  in  a  much 
greater  degree  modified  by  the  sympathies  and 
uoral  quaUties. 

In  thinking  over  all  the  distii>guished  women 


M  CHARACTERS    OF    INTELLECT. 

cau  at  tills  moment  call  to  mind,  I  recollect  but 
onft,  who,  in  the  exercise  of  a  rare  talent,  belied 
ber  sex,  but  the  moral  qualities  had  been  first  per- 
verted.* It  is  from  not  knowing,  or  not  allowing 
this  general  principle,  that  men  of  genius  have 
committed  some  signal  mistakes.  They  have  given 
as  exquisite  and  just  delineations  of  the  more  pecu- 
liar charcicteristics  of  women,  as  modesty,  grace, 
tenderness ;  and  when  they  have  attempted  to  poi^ 
tray  them  with  the  powers  common  to  both  sexes, 
as  wit,  energy,  intellect,  they  have  blundered  in 
Bome  respect;  they  could  form  no  conception  of 
intellect  which  was  not  meisculiue,  and  therefoi-e 
have  either  suppressed  the  feminine  attributes  jilto- 
gether  and  drawn  coarse  caricatures,  or  they  have 
made  them  completely  artificial.f  Women  dis- 
tinguished for  wit  may  sometimes  appear  mascu- 
line and  flippant,  but  the  cause  must  be  sought 
elsewhere  than  in  nature,  who  disclaims  all  such. 
Hence  the  witty  and  intellectual  ladies  of  our 
comedies  and  novels  are  all  in  the  fashion  of  some 
particular  time ;  they  are  like  some  old  portraits 

*  Artemisia  Gentileschi,  aa  Italian  artist  of  the  aeventeenth 
wntury,  painted  one  or  tvro  pictures,  considered  admirabis  u 
works  of  art,  of  which  the  subjects  are  the  most  viciooa  and  bar- 
barous conceivable.  I  rememl>er  one  of  these  in  the  gallery  of 
Florence,  which  I  looked  at  once,  but  ono«,  and  wished  then,  aa 
I  do  now,  for  the  priTilt^  of  burning  it  to  ashes. 

t  Lucy  Ashton,  in  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  may  be  plaee4 
next  to  Desdemona;  Diana  Vernon  is  (compuratiTely)  a  fidlure 
u  eTvry  woman  will  allow ;  while  the  masculine  lady  Oeraliina 
m  Miss  Edgeworth's  tale  of  £anui,  and  the  intellectual  Corinn* 
ire  consistent,  essential  women;  the  distinrtiou  is  more  ea«U« 
felt  tiian  aoalvzod 


5& 


I'hich  cau  3till  amuse  and  pAease  by  the  beauty  of 
the  workmanship,  in  spite  of  the  graceless  costume 
or  grotesque  accompaniments,  but  from  which  we 
(um  to  worship  with  ever  new  delight  the  Floras 
and  goddesses  of  Titian — the  saints  and  the  vir- 
gins of  Raffaelle  and  Domenichino.  So  the  IVIilla- 
mants  and  Belindas,  the  Lady  Townleys  and  Lady 
Teazles  are  out  of  date,  while  Portia  and  Rosalind, 
in  whom  nature  and  the  feminine  character  are 
paramount,  remain  bright  and  fresh  to  the  fancy 
as  when  first  created. 

Portia,  Isabella,  Beatrice,  and  Rosalind,  may  be 
cleissed  together,  as  characters  of  intellect,  because, 
when  compared  with  others,  they  are  at  once  dis- 
Unguished  by  their  mental  superiority,  jn  Portia, 
it  is  intellect  kindled  into  romance  by  a  poetical 
imagination ;  in  Isabel,  it  is  intellect  elevated  by 
religious  principle ;  in  Beatrice,  intellect  animated 
by  spirit ;  in  Rosahnd,  intellect  softened  by  sensi- 
bility. The  wit  which  is  lavished  on  each  is  pro- 
found, or  pointed,  or  sparkling,  or  playful — but 
always  feminine ;  like  spirits  distilled  from  flowers, 
it  always  reminds  us  of  its  origin ;  it  is  a  volatile 
essence,  sweet  as  powerful;  and  to  pursue  the 
comparison  a  step  furthei ,  the  wit  of  Portia  is  like 
ottar  of  roses,  rich  and  concentrated;  that  of 
Rosalind^  like  cotton  dipped  in  aromatic  vinegar ; 
the  wit  of  Beatrice  is  like  sal  voiatlle ;  and  that  of  _, 
Isabel,  like  the  incense  wafted  to  heaven.  Of 
Jhese  four  exquisite  characters,  considered  as  dra- 
toatic  and  poetical  conceptions,  it  is  difficult  to  pro 


M  OHARACTERS   OF   INTELLECT. 

noonce  which  is  most  perfect  in  its  way,  moat 
admirably  drawn,  most  highly  finished.  But  if 
considered  in  another  point  of  view,  as  women  and 
individuals,  as  breathing  realities,  clothed  in  flesh 
and  blood,  I  believe  we  must  assign  the  first  rank 
to  Portia,  as  uniting  in  herself  in  a  more  eminent 
degree  than  the  others,  all  the  noblest  and  most 
lovable  qualities  that  ever  met  together  in  woman ; 
and  presenting  a  complete  personification  of  Pe- 
trarch's exquisite  epitome  of  female  perfection : — 

n  vago  spirito  ardento, 
E'n  alto  intelletto,  un  puro  core. 

It  is  singular,  that  hitherto  no  critical  justice  has 
been  done  to  the  character  of  Portia ;  it  is  yet  more 
wonderful,  that  one  of  the  finest  writers  on  the 
eternal  subject  of  Shakspeare  and  his  perfections, 
should  accuse  Portia  of  pedantry  and  affectation, 
and  confess  she  is  not  a  great  favorite  of  his — a 
confession  quite  worthy  of  him,  who  avers  his  pre- 
dilection for  servant-maids,  and  his  preference  of 
the  Fannys  and  the  Pamelas  over  the  Clementina! 
and  Clarissas.*  Schlegel,  who  has  given  several 
pages  to  a  rapturous  eulogy  on  the  Merchant  of 
Venice,  simply  designates  Portia  as  a  "  rich,  beauti- 
fill,  clever  heiress  :  " — whether  the  fault  lie  in  the 
writer  or  translator,  I  do  protest  against  the  word 
clever.f    Portia  clever  I  what  an  epithet  to  applj 

•  BMUtt«8  Essays,  Tol.  U.  p.  167. 

t  I  «m  informed  that  the  original  a«nnan  word  Is  geittnich* 
HtwkUy,  rieh  in  sotU  or  spirit,  a  just  and  beautifol  epitlwt.  If 
Vdit 


PORTIA.  ti 

to  tLiij  heavenly  compound  of  talent,  feeling,  wis- 
dom, beauty,  and  gentleness  1  Now  would  it  not 
be  well,  if  this  common  and  comprehensive  word 
were  more  accurately  defined,  or  at  least  more 
accurately  used?  It  signifies  properly,  not  so 
much  the  possession  of  high  powers,  as  dexterity  in 
tlie  adaptation  of  certain  faculties  (not  necessarily 
of  a  high  order)  to  a  certain  end  or  aim — not 
always  the  worthiest.  It  implies  something  com- 
monplace, inasmuch  as  it  speaks  the  presence  of 
the  active  and  perceptive,  with  a  deficiency  of  the 
feeling  and  reflective  powers ;  and  applied  to  a  wo- 
man, does  it  not  almost  invariably  suggest  the  idea 
of  something  we  should  distrust  or  shrink  from,  if 
not  allied  to  a  higher  nature  ?  The  profligate 
French  women,  who  ruled  the  councils  of  Europe 
in  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  were  clever 
women  ;  and  that  philosopheress  Madame  du  ChSte- 
let,  who  managed,  at  one  and  the  same  moment, 
the  thread  of  an  intrigue,  her  cards  at  piquet,  and 
a  calculation  in  algebra,  was  a  very  clever  woman  1 
If  Portia  had  been  created  as  a  mere  instrument  to 
bring  about  a  dramatic  catastrophe — if  she  had 
merely  detected  the  flaw  in  Antonio's  bond,  and 
used  it  as  a  means  to  baffle  the  Jew,  she  might  have 
Deen  pronounced  a  clever  woman.  But  what  Por- 
tia does,  is  forgotten  in  what  she  is.  The  rare  and 
harmonious  blending  of  energy,  reflection,  and  feel- 
ing, in  her  fine  character,  maKe  the  epithet  clevei 
lound  like  a  discord  as  applied  to  her,  and  placa 
Ner  infinitely  beyond  the  slight  praise  of  Richardson 


(W  CHARACTKIIS    OF    INTELLECT. 

tiad  Schlegel,  neither  of  whom  appear  to  Lave  fullj 
comprehended  her. 

These  and  other  critics  have  been  apparently  sc 
dfizzled  and  engrossed  b>  the  amazing  character  of 
Shylock,  that  Portia  has  received  less  than  justice 
at  their  hands ;  while  the  fact  is,  that  Shylock  va 
not  a  finer  or  more  finished  character  in  his  way, 
than  Portia  is  in  hers.  These  two  splendid  figures 
are  worthy  of  each  other ;  worthy  of  being  placed 
together  within  the  same  rich  framework  of  en- 
chanting poetry,  and  glorious  and  graceful  forms. 
She  hangs  beside  the  terrible,  inexorable  Jew,  the 
brilliant  lights  of  her  character  set  off  by  the  shad- 
owy power  of  his,  like  a  magnificent  beauty- 
breathing  Titian  by  the  side  of  a  gorgeous  Rem- 
brandt 

Portia  is  endued  with  her  own  share  of  those 
delightful  qualities,  which  Shakspeare  hjis  lavished 
on  many  of  his  female  characters ;  but  besides  the 
dignity,  the  sweetness,  and  tenderness  which  should 
distinguish  her  sex  generally,  she  is  individualized 
by  qualities  peculiar  to  herself;  by  her  high  mental 
powers,  her  enthusiasm  of  temperament,  her  decis- 
ion of  purpose,  and  her  buoyancy  of  spirit  These 
are  innate ;  she  has  other  distinguishing  qaalitiefl 
more  external,  and  which  are  the  result  of  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  she  is  placed.  Thus  she  ia 
the  heiress  of  a  princely  name  and  countless  wealth 
a  train  of  obedient  pleasures  have  ever  waited 
found  her;  and  from  infancy  she  has  breathed  aq 
t^osphero  redolent  of  perfume  and  blandishment 


PORTIA.  59 

Accordingly  there  is  a  commanding  grace,  a  high- 
bred, airy  elegance,  a  spirit  of  magnificence  in  all 
that  she  does  and  says,  as  one  to  whom  splendor 
had  been  familiar  from  her  very  birth.  She  treads 
as  though  her  footsteps  had  been  among  marble 
palaces,  beneath  roofs  of  fretted  gold,  o'er  cedar 
floors  and  pavements  of  jasper  and  porphyry — 
amid  gardens  full  of  statues,  and  flowers,  and  foun- 
tains, and  haunting  music.  She  is  full  of  penetra- 
tive wisdom,  and  genuine  tenderness,  and  Uvely 
wit ;  but  as  she  has  never  known  want,  or  grief,  or 
fear,  or  disappointment,  her  wisdom  is  without  a 
touch  of  the  sombre  or  the  sad ;  her  affections  are 
all  mixed  up  with  faith,  hope  and  joy ;  and  her  wit 
has  not  a  particle  of  malevolence  or  causticity. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  Merchant  of  Venice  is 
founded  on  two  different  tales;  and  in  weaving 
together  his  double  plot  in  so  masterly  a  manner, 
Shakspeare  has  rejected  altogether  the  character  of 
the  astutious  Lady  of  Belmont  with  her  magic  po- 
tions, who  figiires  in  the  Italian  novel.  With  yet 
more  refinement,  he  has  thrown  out  all  the  Hcen- 
tious  part  of  the  story,  which  some  of  his  contem- 
porary dramatists  would  have  seized  on  with  aridity, 
and  made  the  best  or  worst  of  it  possible ;  and  he 
has  substituted  the  trial  of  the  caskets  from  anothei 
■ource.  *  We  are  not  told  expressly  where  Belmont 

•  In  the  "  Mercatante  di  Venez5a  "  of  Ser.  Qiovanni,  we  haft 
ite  whole  story  of  Antonio  and  Bassanic,  and  part  of  the  story 
pat  not  the  character  of  Portia.  The  {ncideot  of  the  caskett  if 
%«m  the  Oesta  Bomanorum' 


10  CHARACTERS   OF   IXTELLVCT. 

b  ffltaated ;  but  as  Bassanio  taken  ship  to  go  thithei 
from  Venice,  and  as  we  find  them  afterwards  order, 
ing  horses  from  Belmont  to  Paduei,  we  will  imagine 
Portia's  hereditary  palace  as  standing  on  some 
lovely  promontory  between  Venice  and  Trieste, 
overlooking  the  blue  Adriatic,  with  the  Friuli 
mountains  or  the  Euganean  hills  for  its  background, 
such  as  we  often  see  in  one  of  Claude's  or  Poussin'a 
elysian  landscapes.  In  a  scene,  in  a  home  like  thisi, 
Shakspeare,  having  first  exorcised  the  original  pos- 
sessor, has  placed  his  Portia  ;  and  so  endowed  her, 
that  all  the  wild,  strange,  and  moving  circumstances 
of  the  story,  become  natural,  probable,  and  neces- 
sary in  connexion  with  her.  That  such  a  woman 
should  be  chosen  by  the  solving  of  an  enigma,  is 
not  surprising:  herself  and  all  around  her,  the 
scene,  the  country,  the  age  in  which  she  is  placed, 
breathe  of  poetry,  romance,  and  enchantment. 

From  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth  they  come 

To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint 

The  Hyrcanian  desert,  and  the  vasty  wilds 

Of  wide  Arabia,  are  as  thoroughfares  now, 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia ; 

The  watery  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  bead 

Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven  is  no  bar 

To  stop  the  foreign  spirits;  but  they  come 

As  o'er  a  Drook  to  see  fair  Portia. 

The  sudden  plan  which  she  forms  for  the  releaad 
of  her  husband's  friend,  her  disguise,  and  her  de 
portment  as  the  young  and  learned  doctor,  woulv 
tppear  forced  and  improbable  in  any  other  womaa 


«1 


Dut  in  Portia  are  the  simple  and  natural  result  of 
ker  charjicter.*  The  quickness  with  which  she 
perceives  the  legal  advantage  which  may  be  taken 
of  the  circumstances ;  the  spirit  of  adventure  with 
which  she  engages  In  the  masc|uerading,  and  the 
decision,  firmness,  and  intelligence  with  which  she 
executes  her  generous  purpose,  are  all  in  perfect 
keeping,  and  nothing  appears  forced — nothing  aa 
introduced  merely  for  theatrical  effect. 

But  all  the  finest  parts  of  Portia's  character  are 
brought  to  bear  in  the  trial  scene.  There  she 
Bhines  forth  all  her  divine  self.  Her  intellectual 
powers,  her  elevated  sense  of  religion,  her  high, 
honorable  principles,  her  best  feelings  as  a  woman, 
are  all  displayed.  She  maintains  at  first  a  calm 
self-command,  as  one  sure  of  carrjnng  her  point  in 
the  end ;  yet  the  painful  heart-thrilling  uncertainty 
in  which  she  keeps  the  whole  court,  until  suspense 
verges  upon  agony,  is  not  contrived  for  effect 
merely ;  it  is  necessary  and  inevitable.  She  has 
two  objects  in  view ;  to  deliver  her  husband's 
friend,  and  to  maintain  her  husband's  honor  by 
the  discharge  of  his  just  debt,  though  paid  out  ot 
her  o^vn  wealth  ten  times  over.  It  is  evident  that 
ihe  would  rather  owe  the  safety  of  Antonio  to  any 
thing  rather  than  the  legal  quibble  with  which  her 
cousin   Bellario  has   armed  her,  and   which  sho 

•  In  that  age,  delicate  points  of  law  were  not  determined  by 
"*»  ordinary  judges  of  tlie  provinces,  but  by  doctors  of  law,  wlu 
Ware  called  from  Bologna,  Fadua.  and  other  places  celebrated  fof 
f  ■^  legal  colleges 


as  CaARACTEUS   OF   INTELLECT. 

reserves  as  a  last  resource.  Thus  all  the  speechek 
addressed  to  Shylock  in  the  first  instance,  are 
either  direct  or  indirect  experiments  on  his  tem- 
per and  feelings.  She  must  be  understood  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  as  examining,  with  in- 
tense anxiety,  the  effect  of  her  own  words  on  his 
mind  and  countenance ;  as  watching  for  that  relentr 
ing  spirit,  which  she  hopes  to  awaken  either  by 
reason  or  persuasion.  She  begins  by  an  appeal  to 
his  mercy,  in  that  matchless  piece  of  eloquence, 
which,  with  an  irresistible  and  solemn  pathos,  falls 
upon  the  heart  like  "  gentle  dew  from  heaven : " — 
but  in  vain ;  for  that  blessed  dew  drops  not  mor*' 
fruitless  and  unfelt  on  the  parched  sand  of  the 
desert,  than  do  these  heavenly  words  upon  the  ear 
of  Shylock.     She  next  attacks  his  avarice : 

Shylock,  there's  thrice  thy  money  offered  thee ! 

Then  she  appeals,  in  the  same  breath,  both  to  hit 
avarice  and  his  pity : 

Be  merciful! 
Take  thrice  thy  money.    Did  me  tear  the  bond. 

All  that  she  says  afterwards — hei  (Strong  expre» 
Bions,  which  are  calculated  to  strike  a  shuddering 
horror  through  the  nerves — the  reflections  she 
interposes — her  delays  and  circumlocution  to  give 
time  for  any  latent  feeling  of  commiseration  to  di* 
phy  itself — all,  all  are  premeditated  and  tend  ia 
the  same  manner  to  the  object  she  has  in  view 

You  must  prepare  yonr  bosom  for  his  kuife. 
Therefore  lay  bare  your  bosom !  ' 


6S 


rhese  two  speeches,  though  addressed  apparently 
to  Antonio,  are  spoken  at  Shylock,  and  are  evi- 
dently intended  to  penetrate  his  bosom.  In  the 
lame  spirit  she  asks  for  the  balance  to  weigh  the 
pound  of  flesh ;  and  entreats  of  Shylock  to  have  • 
•urgeon  ready — 

Have  l)y  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death  1 

SHYIXJCK. 

Is  it  80  nominated  in  tlio  bond? 

PORTIA. 

It  is  not  so  expressed — but  what  of  that  ? 
'Twere  good  you  do  so  much,  for  charity. 

So  unwilling  is  her  sanguine  and  generous  spirit 
to  resign  all  hope,  or  to  believe  that  humanity  is 
absolutely  extinct  in  the  bosom  of  the  Jew,  that 
she  calls  on  Antonio,  as  a  last  resource,  to  speak  for 
himself.  His  gentle,  yet  manly  resignation — ^the 
deep  pathos  of  his  farewell,  and  the  affectionate 
allusion  to  herself  in  his  last  address  to  Bassani<^— 
Commend  me  to  your  honorable  wife ; 
Say  how  I  lov'd  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death,  &o. 
are  well  calculated  to  swell  that  emotion,  which 
through  the  whole  scene  must  have  been  laboring 
suppressed  within  her  heart. 

At  length  the  crisis  arrives,  fov  patience  and 
womanhood  can  endure  no  lorger;  and  when 
Shylock,  carrj-ing  his  savage  bent  "  to  the  last 
ftour  of  act,"  springs  on  his  victim — "A  sentence 


14  CHARACTERS   OF   INTELLECT. 

3ome,  prepare ! "  then  the  smothered  scorn,  indig> 
nation,  and  disgust,  burst  forth  with  an  impetuosity 
which  interferes  with  the  judicial  solemnity  she 
had  at  fii-st  afifected ; — p<irticularly  in  the  speecb— 

Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  oflF  the  flesh. 

Shed  thou  no  blood ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, 

But  just  the  pound  of  flesh ;  if  thou  tak'st  more, 

Or  less  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  but  so  much 

As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance, 

Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 

Of  one  poor  scruple;  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 

But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, — 

Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

But  she  afterwards  recovers  her  propriety,  and 
triumphs  with  a  cooler  scorn  and  a  more  self- 
possessed  exultation. 

It  is  clear  that,  to  feel  the  full  force  and  dramatic 
beauty  of  this  marvellous  scene,  we  must  go  along 
with  Portia  as  well  as  with  Shylock;  we  must 
understand  her  concealed  purpose,  keep  in  mind 
her  noble  motives,  and  pursue  in  our  fancy  the 
under  current  of  feeling,  working  in  her  mind 
throughout  The  terror  and  the  power  of  Shylock's 
character, — ^his  deadly  and  inexorable  maUce, — 
would  be  too  oppressive;  the  pain  and  pity  too 
intolerable,  and  the  horror  of  the  possible  issue 
too  overwhelming,  but  for  the  intellectual  relief 
Biforded  by  this  double  source  of  interest  and  con 
templation. 

I  come  now  to  that  capacity  for  warm  and  gen- 
trous  affection,  that  tenderness  of  heart,  which 


PORTIA.  69 

render  Portia  not  less  lovable  as  a  woman,  than 
admirable  for  her  mental  endowments.  The  affeC" 
tions  are  to  the  intellect,  what  the  forge  is  to  the 
metal ;  it  is  they  which  temper  and  shape  it  to  all 
good  purposes,  and  soften,  strengthen,  and  purify 
it  What  an  exquisite  stroke  of  judgment  in  the 
poet,  to  make  the  mutual  passion  of  Portia  and 
Bassanio,  though  unacknowledged  to  each  other, 
anterior  to  the  opening  of  the  play !  Bassanio'a 
confession  very  properly  comes  first : — 

BASSANIO. 

In  Belmont  is  a  lady  ricUy  left, 

And  she  is  fair,  and  fai'jr  than  that  word. 

Of  wond'rous  virtues :  sometimes  from  her  eyes 

I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages ; 

***** 

and  prepares  us  for  Portia's  heilf  betrayed,  uncon- 
scious election  of  this  most  graceful  and  chivalrous 
admirer — 

NERISSA. 

Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's  time,  a 
Venetian,  a  scholar,  and  a  soldier,  that  came  hither  in 
company  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat  ? 

PORTIA. 

Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio;  as  I  think,  so  he  was  called. 

NERISSA. 

True,  madam ;  he  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my  fool- 
ish eyes  looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a  fail 
lady. 

PORTIA. 

I  remember  him  well;  and  I  rerojmber  him  worthy  d 
'hy  praise. 

ft 


86  CHARACTERS   OF   INTELLECT. 

Our  interest  is  thus  awakened  for  tlie  loren 
from  the  very  first ;  and  what  shall  be  said  of  the 
casket-scene  with  Bassanio,  whei*e  every  line  which 
Portia  speaks  is  so  worthy  of  herself,  so  full  of  sen- 
timent and  beauty,  and  poetry  and  passion  ?  Too 
naturally  frank  for  disguise,  too  modest  to  confeai 
her  depth  of  love  while  the  issue  of  the  trial  re- 
mains in  suspense,  the  conflict  between  love  and 
fear,  and  maidenly  dignity,  cause  the  most  delicioos 
confusion  that  ever  tinged  a  woman's  cheek,  or 
dropped  in  broken  utterance  from  her  lips. 

I  pray  you,  tarry,  pause  a  day  or  two. 
Before  you  hazard ;  for  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company ;  therefore,  forbear  awhile ; 
There's  something  tells  me,  (but  it  is  not  love,) 
I  would  not  lose  you ;  and  you  know  yourself^ 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality: 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well, 
(And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought ) 
1  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two 
Before  yon  venture  for  me.    I  could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right, — ^but  then  I  am  forsworn;— 
So  will  I  never  be :  so  you  may  miss  me ; — 
But  if  you  do,  you'll  make  me  wish  a  sin. 
That  I  had  been  forsworn.    Beshrew  your  eyea, 
They  have  o'erlooked  me,  and  divided  me: 
One  half  of  me  is  yours,  the  other  half  yours, — 
Mine  own,  I  would  say;  but  if  mine,  then  your*, 
And  80  all  yours  1 

The  short  dialogue  between  the  loTers  ii  OBk 
vnimte. 


PORTIA.  91 


BASSANIO. 

Let  me  choose ; 
For,  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 


Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio?    Then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  Io»« 

BASSANIO. 

None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  We 
There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 

rORTIA. 

Ayl  but  I  fear  you  speak  upon  the  rack. 
Where  men  enforced  do  speak  any  thing. 

BASSANIO. 

Promise  me  life,  and  I'll  confess  the  truth. 

PORTIA. 

Well  then,  confess,  and  live. 

BASSANIO. 

Confess  and  love 
Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession! 
0  happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 
Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance ! 

A  prominent  feature  in  Portia's  character  is  tha 
BOnfiding,  buoyant  spirit,  which  mingles  with  aU 
tter  thoughts  and  affections.  And  here  let  me  ob« 
«erve,  that  I  never  yet  met  in  real  life,  nor  evei 
^ead  in  tale  or  history,  of  any  woman,  distiufjuished 


08  CHAIIACTERS   OF  INTELLECT. 

for  intellect  of  the  highest  order,  who  was  i.ot  also 
remarkable  for  this  trusting  spirit,  this  hopeflilnea 
aiid  cheerfulness  of  temper,  which  is  compatible 
with  the  most  serious  habits  of  thought,  and  the 
most  profound  sensibility.  Lady  Wortley  Montagu 
was  one  instance  ;  and  Madame  de  Stael  fumishei 
another  much  more  memorable.  In  her  Corinne, 
whom  she  drew  from  herself,  this  natural  brightness 
of  temper  /s  a  prominent  part  of  the  character.  A 
disposition  to  doubt,  to  suspect,  and  to  despond,  in 
the  young,  argues,  in  general,  some  inherent  weak- 
ness, moral  or  physical,  or  some  miserable  and  rad- 
ical error  of  education ;  in  the  old,  it  is  one  of  the 
first  sjTnptoms  of  age ;  it  speaks  of  the  influence  of 
Borrow  and  experience,  and  foreshows  the  decay  of 
the  stronger  and  more  generous  powers  of  the  souL 
Portia's  strength  of  intellect  takes  a  natural  tinge 
from  the  flush  and  bloom  of  her  young  and  prosper- 
ous existence,  and  from  her  fervent  imagination. 
In  the  casket-scene,  she  fears  indeed  the  issue  of 
the  trial,  on  which  more  than  her  life  is  hazarded  • 
but  while  she  trembles,  her  hope  is  stronger  than 
her  fear.  Wlule  Bassanio  is  contemplating  th« 
caskets,  she  suffers  herself  to  dwell  for  one  momen* 
on  the  possibility  of  disappointment  and  misery. 


Let  muslo  sound  while  he  doth  make  bis  choiw; 
Then  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swarv-like  end,       *" 
Fading  in  mnsic :  that  the  comparison 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  strean 
And  watery  death-bed  for  him. 


fi9 


Then  immediately  follows  that  revulsion  of  feel- 
bg,  so  beautifully  characteristic  of  the  hopefiU, 
trasting,  mounting  spirit  of  this  noble  creature. 

But  he  may  win! 
And  what  is  nrasio  then? — then  music  is 
Even  OB  the  flourish,  when  true  subjects  bow 
To  a  new-crowned  monarch :  such  it  is 
As  aro  those  dulcet  sounds  at  break  of  day, 
That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear, 
And  summon  him  to  man-iage.    Now  he  goes 
With  no  less  presence,  but  with  much  more  love 
Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea  monster.    I  stand  here  for  sacrifice. 

Here,  not  only  the  feeling  itself,  bom  of  th« 
elastic  and  sanguine  spirit  which  had  never  been 
touched  by  grief,  but  the  images  in  which  it  comes 
arrayed  to  her  fancy, — the  bridegroom  waked  by 
music  on  his  wedding-mom, — the  new-crowned 
monarch, — the  comparison  of  Bsissanio  to  the  young 
Alcides,  and  of  herself  to  the  daughter  of  Laomc- 
don, — are  all  precisely  what  would  have  suggested 
themselves  to  the  fine  poetical  imeigination  of  Por- 
tia in  such  a  moment. 

Her  passionate  exclamations  of  delight,  when 
Bassanio  has  fixed  on  the  right  casket,  are  as  strong 
03  though  she  had  despaired  before.  Fear  and 
doubt  she  could  repel ;  the  native  elasticity  of  her 
mind  bore  up  against  them;  vet  she  makes  us  feel, 
that,  aa  the  sudden  joy  overpowers  her  almost  to 
Tainting,  the  disappointment  would  aa  certaiolj 
*iave  killed  her. 


10  CHAKACTBRS   OF   IKTKLlXCt. 

How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air, 

As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embraced  despair, 

And  shudd'riug  fear,  and  green-eyed  jealousy? 

0  love!  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy; 
In  measure  rain  thy  joy  scant  this  exceso ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing:  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit! 

Her  subsequent  surrender  of  herself  in  aeai  t  and 
loul,  of  her  maiden  freedom,  and  her  vast  posse» 
sions,  can  never  be  read  without  deep  emotions 
for  not  only  all  the  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  a 
devoted  woman,  are  here  blended  with  all  the 
dignity  which  becomes  the  princely  heiress  of  Bel- 
mont, but  the  serious,  measured  self-possession  of 
her  address  to  her  lover,  when  all  suspense  is  over, 
and  all  concealment  superfluous,  is  most  beautifully 
consistent  with  the  character.  It  is,  in  truth,  an 
awful  moment,  that  in  which  a  gifted  woman  first 
discovers,  that  besides  talents  and  powers,  she  has 
abo  passions  and  affections ;  when  she  first  begins 
to  suspect  their  vast  importance  in  the  siun  of  her 
existence ;  when  she  first  confesses  that  her  happi- 
ness is  no  longer  in  her  own  keeping,  but  is  sur- 
rendered forever  and  forever  into  the  dominion 
of  another  I  The  possession  of  uncommon  powers 
of  mind  are  so  far  from  affording  reUef  or  resource 
in  the  first  intoxicating  surprise — I  had  almost  said 
terror— of  such  a  revolution,  that  they  render  it 
more  intense.  The  sources  of  thought  multiply 
beyond  calcuUtion  the  sources  of  feeling;  an*! 
mingled,  they  rush  together,  a  torrent   deej)  ai 


7' 


itrong.  Because  Portia  is  endued  with  that  en« 
larged  comprehension  which  looks  before  and  after, 
»he  does  not  feel  the  less,  but  the  more :  because 
from  the  baight  of  her  commanding  intellect  she 
can  contemplate  the  force,  the  tendency,  the  con- 
iequences  of  her  own  sentiments — because  she  is 
fiilly  sensible  of  her  own  situation,  and  the  value 
of  all  she  concedes — the  concession  is  not  made 
with  less  entireness  and  devotion  of  heart,  less  con- 
lidence  in  the  truth  and  worth  of  her  lover,  than 
when  Juliet,  in  a  similar  moment,  but  without  any 
«uch  intrusive  reflections — any  check  but  the  in- 
stinctive delicacy  of  her  sex,  flings  herself  and  her 
fortunes  at  the  feet  of  her  lover : 

And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I'll  lav. 
And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  through  all  the  world.* 
Tn  Portia's  confession,  which  is  not  bredthed  from 
a  moonlit  balcony,  but  spoken  openly  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  attendants  and  vassals,  there  is  nothing 
of  the  passionate  self-abandonment  of  Juliet,  nor 
of  the  arliess  simplicity  of  Miranda,  but  a  concious- 
ness  and  a  tender  seriousness,  approaching  tt 
■olemnity,  which  are  not  less  touching. 

YoTi  Bee  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 

Such  as  I  am :  though  for  myself  alone, 

1  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish. 

To  wish  myself  much  better;  yet,  for  you, 

I  would  be  trebled  twenty  time*  myself; 

Ji  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  tioiM 

Bmneo  and  Juliet,  Act  U.  Scene  2. 


f%  CUARACTER8   OF   INTELLECT. 

More  rich;  that  only  to  stand  high  in  your  acooon^ 

I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account;  but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  something;  which  to  term  in  gross, 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractis'd, 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn ;  and  happier  than  this, 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn; 
Happiest  of  all  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed, 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
M j'self  and  whait     mine,  to  you  and  yours 
Is  now  convertea.    But  now,  I  was  the  lord, 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants. 
Queen  o'er  myself;  and  even  now,  but  now. 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 
Are  yours,  my  lord. 

We  must  also  remark  that  the  sweetness,  the 
solicitude,  the  subdued  fondness  which  she  after- 
wards displays,  relative  to  the  letter,  are  as  true  to 
the  softness  of  her  sex,  as  the  generous  self-denial 
with  which  she  urges  the  departure  of  Bassanio, 
(having  first  given  him  a  husband's  right  over  her- 
self and  all  her  countless  wealth,)  is  consistent  with 
a  reflecting  mind,  and  a  spirit  at  once  tender 
reasonable,  and  magnanimous. 

It  is  not  only  in  the  trial  scene  that  Portia'i 
tcuteness,  eloquence,  and  lively  intelligence  are 
revealed  to  us ;  they  are  displayed  in  the  first  iii. 
stance,  and  kept  up  consistently  V)  the  end.  Hei 
reflections,  arising  from  the  most  usual  aspects  ot 
nature,  and  from  the  commonest  incidents  of  life 
Kre  in  such  a  poetical  spirit,  and  are  at  the  sami 


7S 


lime  80  pointed,  so  profound,  that  they  have  passed 
into  faimiliar  and  daily  application,  with  all  the 
force  of  proverbs. 

Tf  to  do,  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to 
(to,  chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages 
princes'  palaces. 

I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  dona, 
than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine  own  teachmg. 

The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark, 
When  neither  is  attended ;  and,  I  think. 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season,  seasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise  and  true  perfection ! 

How  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams ! 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 
A  substitute  shines  as  brightly  as  a  king, 
Until  a  king  be  by ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook, 
Into  the  main  of  waters. 

Her  reflections  on  the  friendship  between  her 
husband  and  Antonio  are  as  full  of  deep  meaning 
as  of  tenderness ;  and  her  portrait  of  a  young  >ox« 
comb,  in  the  same  scene,  is  touched  with  a  truth 
»nd  spirit  which  show  with  what  a  keen  observing 
)y,5  she  has  looked  upon  men  and  things. 

I'll  hold  thee  any  wager. 

When  we  are  both  accou'^r'd  like  young  meji, 
I'll  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 
A.ui  wear  ray  dagger  with  the  traver  grao* 


14  CUAKACTERS   OF   INTELLKCT. 

And  speak,  between  the  change  of  man  and  boj 

With  a  reed  voice ;  and  turn  two  mincing  step* 

Into  a  manly  stride ;  and  speak  of  frays, 

Like  a  fine  bragging  youth ;  and  tell  quaint  lie»-> 

How  honorable  ladies  sought  my  love, 

Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died; 

I  could  not  do  withal:  then  I'll  repent, 

And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  killed  them ; 

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I'll  tell. 

That  men  should  swear,  I  have  discontinued  school 

Above  a  twelvemonth ! 

And  in  the  description  of  her  various  suitors,  in 
the  first  scene  with  Nerissa,  what  infinite  power, 
wit,  and  vivacity  I  She  half  checks  herself  as  she 
is  about  to  give  the  reins  to  her  sportive  humor : 
"  In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a  mocker." — 
But  if  it  carries  her  away,  it  is  so  perfectly  good- 
natured,  so  temperately  bright,  so  lady-like,  it  Im 
ever  without  offence ;  and  so  far,  most  unlike  the 
satirical,  poignant,  unsparing  wit  of  Beatrice,  "  mia- 
prising  what  she  looks  on."  In  fact,  I  can  scarce 
conceive  a  greater  contrast  than  between  the  vivac- 
ity of  Portia  and  the  vivacity  of  Beatrice.  Portia, 
with  all  her  any  brilliance,  is  supremely  soft  wad 
dignified;  every  thing  she  says  or  does,  displays 
her  capability  for  profound  thought  and  feeling,  aa 
well  as  her  lively  and  romantic  disposition ;  and  aa 
I  have  seen  in  an  Italian  g^den  a  fountain  fling- 
ing round  its  wr'^aths  of  showerj-  light,  while  the 
many-colored  Iris  hung  brooding  above  it,  in  its 
calm  and  soul-felt  glory;  so  in  Portia  the  wit  ia 
tver  kept  subordinate  to  the  poetry,  and  we  stiU 


75 


feel  the  tender,  the  intellectual,  and  the  imagina- 
tive part  of  the  character,  as  superior  to,  and  pre« 
riding  over  its  spirit  and  vivacity. 

In  the  last  act,  Shylock  and  his  machinations  be- 
ing dismissed  from  our  thoughts,  and  the  rest  of  the 
dramatis  personce  assembled  together  at  Belmont, 
kll  our  interest  and  all  our  attention  are  riveted 
on  Portia,  and  the  conclusion  leaves  the  most  de- 
lightful impression  on  the  fancy.  The  playful 
equivoque  of  the  rings,  the  sportive  trick  she  puts 
on  her  husband,  and  her  thorough  enjo}Tnent  of 
the  jest,  which  she  checks  just  as  it  is  proceeding 
beyond  the  bounds  of  propriety,  show  how  little 
she  was  displeased  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  gift,  and 
are  all  consistent  with  her  bright  and  buoyant 
spirit.  In  conclusion,  when  Portia  invites  her  com- 
pany to  enter  her  palace  to  refresh  themselves 
after  their  travels,  and  talk  over  "  these  events  at 
full,"  the  imagination,  unwilling  to  lose  sight  of  the 
brilliant  group,  follows  them  in  gay  procession  from 
the  lovely  moonlight  garden  to  marble  halls  and 
princely  revels,  to  splendor  and  festive  mirth,  to 
love  and  happiness. 

Many  women  have  possessed  many  of  those 
qualities  which  render  Portia  so  dehghtful.  She 
is  in  herself  a  piece  of  reality,  in  whose  possible 
existepce  we  have  no  doubt:  and  yet  a  human 
being,  in  whom  the  moral,  intellectual,  and  sen- 
aent  faculties  should  be  so  exquisitely  blended  anc] 
proportioned  to  each  other;  and  these  again,  ii 
«armony  with  all  outward  aspects  and  influence* 


W  CHAItACTKRS   OF   INTELLECT. 

probably  neve'  existed — certainly  coald  not  now 
exiRt.  A  woman  constituted  like  Portia,  and  placed 
in  this  age,  and  in  the  actual  state  of  society,  would 
Gnd  society  armed  against  ber;  and  instead  of  be- 
ing like  Portia,  a  gracious,  happy,  beloved,  and 
loving  creature,  would  be  a  victim,  immolated  io 
Ore  to  that  multitudinous  Moloch  termed  Opinion. 
With  her,  the  world  without  would  be  at  war  with 
the  world  within;  in  the  perpetual  strife,  either 
her  nature  would  "  be  subdued  to  the  element  it 
worked  in,"  and  bending  to  a  necessity  it  could 
neither  escape  nor  approve,  lose  at  last  something 
of  its  original  brightness;  or  otherwise — a  per- 
petual spirit  of  resistance,  cherished  as  a  safeguard, 
might  perhaps  in  the  end  destroy  the  equipoise ; 
firmness  would  become  pride  and  self-assurance ; 
and  the  soft,  sweet,  feminine  texture  of  the  mind, 
settle  into  rigidity.  Is  there  then  no  sanctuary  for 
such  a  mind  ? — Where  shall  it  find  a  refuge  from 
the  world  ? — Where  seek  for  strength  against  it- 
self?    Where,  but  in  heaven  ? 

Camiola,  in  Massinger's  Maid  of  Honor,  is  said  to 
emulate  Portia ;  and  the  real  story  of  Camiola  (for 
she  is  an  historical  personage)  is  very  beautiful. 
She  was  a  lady  of  Messina,  who  lived  in  the  begin* 
oing  of  the  fourteenth  century ;  and  was  the  con- 
temporary of  Queen  Joanna,  of  Petrarch  and  Boo- 
A<o.  It  fell  out  in  those  days,  that  Prince  0^ 
kando  of  Arragon,  the  younger  brother  of  the  King 
•f  Sicily,  having  taken  the  command  of  a  nava« 
vmament  against  the  Neapolitans,  was  defeated 


71 


ipounded,  taken  prisoner,  and  confined  by  Robftrt 
pf  Naples  (the  father  of  Queen  Joanna)  in  one 
of  his  strongest  castles.  As  the  prince  had  distin- 
guished himself  by  his  enmity  to  the  Neapolitans, 
and  by  many  exploits  against  them,  his  ransom  waa 
fixed  at  an  exorbitant  sum,  and  his  captivity  was 
onuflually  severe ;  while  the  liing  of  Sicily,  who 
had  some  cause  of  displeasure  against  his  brother, 
and  imputed  to  him  the  defeat  of  his  armament,  re- 
fused either  to  negotiate  for  his  release,  or  to  pay 
the  ransom  demanded. 

Orlando,  who  was  celebrated  for  his  fine  person 
and  reckless  valour,  was  apparently  doomed  to 
languish  away  the  rest  of  his  life  in  a  dungeon, 
when  Camiola  Turinga,  a  rich  Sicilian  neiress,  de- 
voted the  half  of  her  fortune  to  release  him.  But 
as  such  an  action  might  expose  her  to  evil  com- 
ments, she  made  it  a  condition,  that  Orlando  should 
marry  her.  The  prince  gladly  accepted  the  terms, 
and  sent  her  the  contract  of  marriage,  signed  by 
his  hand  ;  but  no  sooner  was  he  at  liberty,  than  ho 
refused  to  fulfil  it,  and  even  denied  all  knowledge 
of  his  benefactress. 

Camiola  appealed  to  the  tribunal  of  state,  pro- 
duced the  written  contract,  and  described  the  obli- 
gations she  had  heaped  on  /his  ungrateful  and  un- 
generous man ;  sentence  was  given  against  him; 
and  he  was  adjudged  to  Camiola,  not  only  as  hei 
nghtful  husband,  but  as  a  property  which,  accord  ■ 
kig  to  the  laws  of  war  in  that  age,  she  had  purcheise^ 
with  her  gold.     The  d>v  of  marriajre  was  fixe»l 


rS  CHARACTEUS   OF   INTELLECT. 

Orlando  presented  himself  with  a  splendid  retuia« 
Oamiola  also  appeared,  decorated  as  for  her  bridal 
but  instead  of  bestowing  her  hand  on  the  recreant 
ihe  reproached  him  in  the  presence  of  all  with  hii 
breach  of  faith,  declared  her  utter  contempt  for  hu 
baseness;  and  then  freely  bestowing  on  him  the 
Bum  paid  for  his  ransom,  as  a  gift  worthy  of  hia 
mean  soul,  she  turned  away,  and  dedicated  hersell 
and  her  heart  to  heaven.  In  this  resolution  she 
remained  inflexible,  though  the  king  and  all  the 
court  united  in  entreaties  to  soften  her.  She  took 
the  veil ;  and  Orlando,  henceforth  regarded  as  one 
who  had  stained  his  knighthood,  and  violated  his 
faith,  passed  the  rest  of  his  life  as  a  dishonored 
man,  and  died  in  obscurity. 

Camiola,  in  "  The  Maid  of  Honor,"  is,  like  Por- 
tia, a  wealthy  heiress,  surrounded  by  suitors,  and 
"  queen  o'er  herself: "  the  character  is  constructed 
upon  the  same  principles,  as  great  intellectual 
power,  magnanimity  of  temper,  and  feminine  ten- 
derness; but  not  only  do  pain  and  disquiet,  and 
the  change  induced  by  unkind  and  inauspicious  in- 
fluences, enter  into  this  sweet  picture  to  mar  and 
cloud  its  happy  beauty, — but  the  portrait  itself  may 
be  pronounced  out  of  drawing ; — for  Massinger  ap- 
parently had  not  sufficient  delicacy  of  sentiment  to 
work  out  his  own  conception  of  the  character  with 
perfect  consistency.  Ta  his  adaptation  of  the  story 
he  represents  the  mutual  love  of  Orlando  and  Ca- 
miola as  existing  previous  to  the  captivity  of  the 
Ibrmer,  and  on  liis  part  declared  with  many  yowa 


79 


a  eternal  faith,  yet  she  requires  a  -written  contract 
of  marriage  before  she  liberates  him.  It  will  pei^ 
haps  be  said  that  she  has  penetrated  his  weakness, 
and  anticipates  his  falsehood :  miserable  excuse ! — 
how  could  a  magnanimous  woman  love  a  man, 
whose  falsehood  she  believes  but  possible  ? — or  lov- 
ing him,  how  could  she  deign  to  secure  herself  by 
such  means  against  the  consequences  ?  Shakspeare 
and  Nature  never  committed  such  a  solecism.  Ca- 
miola  doubts  before  she  has  been  wronged;  the 
Qrmness  and  assurance  in  herself  border  on  harsh- 
ness. What  in  Portia  is  the  gentle  wisdom  cf  a 
noble  nature,  appears,  in  Camiola,  too  much  a 
spirit  of  calculation  :  it  savors  a  little  of  the  count- 
ing house.  As  Portia  is  the  heiress  of  Belmont, 
and  Camiola  a  merchant's  daughter,  the  distinction 
may  be  proper  and  characteristic,  but  it  is  not  in 
favor  of  Camiola.  The  contrast  may  be  thus  il- 
lustrated : 

CA5IIOLA. 

You  have  heard  of  Bertoldo's  captivity  and  the  king's 
neglect,  the  greatness  of  his  ransom;  ^/ly  thottscmd 
srowns,  Adomi !  Tteo  parts  of  my  estate !  Yet  I  sc 
Ijve  the  gentleman,  for  to  you  I  will  confess  my  weak* 
nes8,  that  I  purpose  now,  when  he  is  forsaken  by  die 
ting  and  hvt  own  hopes,  to  racsom  him. 

Maid  of  Honor,  AA  %, 

PORTIA. 

What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew? 

BASSAKIO. 

For  me — ^three  thousand  daoatt. 


M)        CnARACTEKS  OF  INTELLECT. 

PORTIA. 

What!  no  more! 

fay  him  six  thousand  and  deface  the  bond, 

Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 

Before  a  friend  of  this  description 

Shall  lose  a  hair  thro'  my  Bassanio's  fiiralt. 

You  shall  have  gold 

Tj  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  o'er. 

Merchant  of  Fernet. 

Camiola,  who  is  a  Sicilian,  might  as  well  have  been 
born  at  Amsterdam :  Portia  could  have  only  existed 
in  Italy.  Portia  is  profound  as  she  is  brilliant; 
Camiola  is  sensible  and  sententious ;  she  asserts  her 
dignity  very  successfully ;  but  we  cannot  for  a  mo- 
ment imagine  Portia  as  reduced  to  the  necessity  of 
asserting  hers.  The  idiot  Sylli,  in  "  The  Maid  of 
Honor,"  who  follows  Camiola  like  one  of  the  de- 
formed dwarfs  of  old  time,  is  an  intolerable  viola- 
tion of  taste  and  propriety,  and  it  sensibly  lowers 
our  impression  of  the  principal  character.  Shak- 
Bpeare  would  never  have  placed  Sir  Andrew  Ague* 
cheek  in  constant  and  immediate  approximation 
with  such  a  woman  as  Portia. 

Lastly,  the  charm  of  the  poetical  coloring  ia 
wholly  wanting  in  Camiola,  so  that  when  she  ii 
placed  in  contrast  with  the  glowing  eloquence,  the 
luxuriant  grace,  the  buoyant  spirit  of  Portia,  the 
effect  is  somewhat  that  of  coldness  and  formality. 
Notwithstanding  the  dignity  and  the  beauty  of 
Massinger's  delineation,  and  the  noble  self-devotion 
•f  Camiola,  which  I  acknowledge  and  admire,  the 


PORTIA.  8* 

hro  characters  will  admit  of  no  comparison  M 
sources  of  contemplation  and  pleasure. 


It  IS  observable  that  something  of  the  intellectual 
brilUance  of  Portia  is  reflected  on  the  other  female 
characters  of  the  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  so  as  to 
preserve  in  the  midst  of  contrast  a  certain  harmony 
and  keeping.  Thus  Jessica,  though  properly  kept 
Bubordinate,  is  certainly 

A  most  beautiful  pagau — a  most  sweet  Jew. 

She  cannot  be  called  a  sketch — or  if  a  sketch,  she 
is  like  one  of  those  dashed  off  in  glowing  colors 
from  the  rainbow  pallette  of  a  Rubens ;  she  has  a 
rich  tinge  of  orientalism  shed  over  her,  worthy  of 
her  eastern  origin.  In  any  other  play,  and  in  any 
other  companionship  than  that  of  the  matchless 
Portia,  Jessica  would  make  a  very  beautiful  heroine 
of  herself.  Nothing  can  be  more  poetically,  more 
classically  fanciful  and  elegant,  than  the  scenes  be- 
tween her  and  Lorenzo ; — the  celebrated  moonlight 
dialogue,  for  instance,  which  we  all  have  by  heart. 
Every  sentiment  she  utters  interests  us  for  her:— 
more  particularly  her  bashful  self-reproach,  trhen 
lying  in  the  disguise  of  a  page ; — 

I  am  glad  'tis  night,  you  do  not  look  upon  m«, 
For  I  am  much  asham'd  of  my  exchange; 
Bat  love  if  bliid,  and  lovars  cannot  mm 


BS  CHARACTERS   OF   INTKIXECT. 

The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit; 
For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blash 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

And  tbe  enthusiastic  and  generous  testimony  to 
the  superior  graces  and  accomplishments  of  Portis 
comes  with  a  peculiar  grace  from  her  lips. 

Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match. 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women. 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawned  with  the  other;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

We  should  not,  however,  easily  pardon  her  for 
cheating  her  father  with  so  much  indifference,  bat 
for  the  percej)tion  that  Shylock  values  his  daughter 
far  beneath  his  wealth. 

I  would  my  daughter  were  dead  at  my  foot,  and  th« 
jewels  in  her  ear ! — would  she  were  hearsed  at  my  foot, 
and  the  ducats  in  her  coffin ! 

Nerissa  is  a  good  specimen  of  a  common  genus 
of  characters ;  she  is  a  clever  confidential  waiting- 
woman,  who  has  caught  a  little  of  her  lady's  ele- 
gance and  romance ;  she  affects  to  be  lively  and 
sententious,  falls  in  love,  and  makes  her  favor 
conditional  on  the  fortune  of  the  caskets,  and  in 
short  mimics  her  mistress  with  good  emphasis  and 
discretion.  Nerissa  and  the  gay  talkative  Gratiano 
are  as  well  matched  as  the  incomparable  Portif 
tnd  her  magnificent  and  captivating  lover. 


ISABELLA.  83 


ISABELLA. 

The  character  of  Isabella,  considered  as  a  poet- 
ical delineation,  is  less  mixed  than  that  of  Portia; 
and  the  dissimilarity  between  the  two  appears,  at 
first  view,  so  complete  that  we  can  scarce  believe 
that  the  same  elements  enter  into  the  composi- 
tion of  each.  Yet  so  it  is  ;  they  are  portrayed  as 
equally  wise,  gracious,  virtuous,  fair,  and  young; 
we  perceive  in  both  the  same  exalted  principle 
"^nd  firmness  of  character  ;  the  same  depth  of 
reflection  and  persuasive  eloquence  ;  the  same 
self-denying  generosity  and  capability  of  strong 
affections;  and  we  must  wonder  at  that  marvel- 
lous power  by  which  qualities  and  endowments, 
essentially  and  closely  allied,  are  so  combined  and 
modified  as  to  produce  a  result  altogether  differ- 
ent. •' O  Nature!  O  Shakespeare  I  which  of  ye 
drew  from  the  other  ?  ' ' 

Isabella  is  distinguished  from  Portia,  and  strong- 
ly individualized  by  a  certain  moral  grandeur,  a 
saintly  grace,  something  of  vestal  dignity  and  pu- 
rity, which  render  her  less  attractive  and  more 
imposing;  she  is  "  severe  in  youthful  beauty,"  and 
inspires  a  reverence  which  would  have  placed  her 
beyond  the  daring  of  one  unholy  wish  or  thought, 
except  in  such  a  man  as  Angelo — 

O  cunning  enemj',  that,  to  catch  a  saint, 
With  saints  dost  bait  thy  hook  1 


B4  •nilARACTKBS   OF   INTELLEOT. 

This  impression  of  her  character  is  conveywl 
from  the  very  first,  when  Lucio,  the  libertine  jestei 
whose  coarse  audacious  wit  chocks  at  every  feather, 
thus  expresses  his  respect  for  her, — 

I  would  not — though  'tis  my  familiar  siu 
With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing,  and  to  jest 
Tongue  far  from  heart — play  with  all  virgins  s<k 
I  hold  you  as  a  thing  enskyed,  and  sainted ; 
By  your  renouncement  an  Immortal  spirit, 
And  to  be  talked  with  in  sincerity, 
As  with  a  saint. 

A  strong  distinction  between  Isabella  and  Por- 
tia is  produced  by  the  circumstances  in  which  they 
are  respectively  placed.  Portia  is  a  high-bom 
heiress,  "  Lord  of  a  fair  mansion,  master  of  her  ser- 
vants, queen  o'er  herself; "  easy  and  decided,  as 
one  born  to  conamand,  and  used  to  it.  Isabella 
has  also  the  innate  dignity  which  renders  her 
"  queen  o'er  herself,"  but  she  has  lived  far  from 
the  world  and  its  pomps  and  pleasures ;  she  is  one 
of  a  consecrated  sisterhood — a  novice  of  St  Clare ; 
fhe  power  to  command  obedience  and  to  con- 
fer happiness  are  to  her  unknown.  Portia  is  a 
splendid  creature,  radiant  with  confidence,  hope, 
and  joy.  She  is  like  the  orange-tree,  hung  at 
Dnce  with  golden  fruit  and  luxuriant  Howers,  which 
has  expanded  into  bloom  and  fragrance  beneath 
favoring  skies,  and  has  been  nursed  into  beauty  by 
the  sunshine  and  the  dews  of  heaven.  Isabella  is 
ike  a  stately  and  graceful  cedar,  towering  on  some 
ilpine  chff,   unbowed   and  unscathed    amid   th« 


I8ABELXA.  8t 

ctorm.  She  gives  us  the  impression  of  one  who 
has  passed  under  the  ennobling  discipline  of  suf- 
fering and  self-denial:  a  melancholy  chai-m  tem- 
pers the  natural  vigor  of  her  mind:  her  spirit 
seems  to  stand  upon  an  eminence,  and  look  down 
upon  the  world  as  if  already  enskyed  and  sainted; 
and  yet  when  brought  in  contact  with  that  world 
which  she  inwardly  despises,  she  shrinks  back  with 
all  the  timidity  natural  to  her  cloistral  education. 

This  union  of  natural  grace  and  grandeur  with 
the  habits  and  sentiments  of  a  recluse, — of  auster- 
ity of  life  with  gentleness  of  manner, — of  inflexible 
moral  principle  with  humility  and  even  bashful- 
neas  of  deportment,  is  delineated  with  the  most 
beautiful  and  wonderftil  consistency.  Thus  when 
her  brother  sends  ^o  her,  to  entreat  her  mediation, 
her  first  feeling  i»  fear,  and  a  distrujt  in  her  own 
powers: 

.  .  .  AIsa  !  what  poor  ability's  in  me 
To  do  him  good  ? 

LXTCIO. 

Essay  the  power  yon  have. 

ISABEUjk. 

My  power,  alas  I  I  doubt. 

Tn  the  first  scene  with  Angelo  she  seems  divided 
between  her  love  for  her  brother  and  her  sense  of 
nis  fault ;  between  her  self-respect  and  her  maid- 
enly  bashfulness.  She  begins  with  a  kind  of  hesi- 
tation "  at  war  'twvxt  will  and  will  not : "  and  whei 
4iigelo  quotes  the  law,  and  inmts  ov  the  justice  ol 


66  CHAKACTKRS    OK    1^•TK^^KCT. 

'hi8  sentence,  and  the  responsibility  of  his  station, 
her  native  sense  of  moral  rectitude  and  seven 
principles  takes  the  lead,  and  she  shrinks  back:  — 

0  just,  but  severe  law ! 
I  had  a  brother  then — Heaven  keep  your  honor ! 

(Betiring. 

Excited  and  encouraged  by  Lucio,  and  sup- 
ported by  her  own  natural  spirit,  she  returns  to 
the  charge, — she  gains  energy  and  self-possessiou 
&s  she  proceeds,  grows  more  earnest  and  passionate 
from  the  difficulty  she  encounters,  and  dispbys 
that  eloquence  and  power  of  reasoning  for  which 
we  had  been  abeady  prapared  by  Claudio's  first 
allusion  to  her :  — 

In  her  youth 

There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect. 
Such  as  moves  men;  besides,  she  hath  prosperous  art, 
When  she  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse. 
And  well  she  can  persuade. 

It  is  a  curious  coincidence  that  Isabella,  exhort- 
ing Angelo  to  mercy,  avails  herself  of  precisely  the 
Bame  arguments,  and  insists  on  the  self-same  topics 
which  Portia  addresses  to  Shylock  in  her  celebrated 
speech ;  but  how  beautifully  and  how  truly  is  the 
distinction  marked !  how  like,  and  yet  how  unlike 
'ortia's  eulogy  on  mercy  is  a  piece  of  heavenly 
rhetoric ;  it  falls  on  the  ear  with  a  solemn  meas- 
ored  harmony ;  it  is  the  voice  of  a  descended  ange] 
iuldressing  an  inferior  nature :  if  not  premeditated, 
It  is  at  leaat  part  of  a  preconcerted  scheme  ;  while 
ftabelia's  pleadings  are  poured  from  the  abundance 


ISABELLA.  87 

•f  her  heart  in  broken  sentences,  and  with  the  art- 
less vehemence  of  one  who  feels  that  life  and  death 
hang  upon  her  appeal.  This  will  be  best  under- 
itood  by  placing  the  corresponding  passages  is 
humediate  comparison  with  each  other. 

PORTIA. 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain' d, 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  lieaven, 
Upon  tlie  place  beneath :  it  is  twice  bless'd ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes: 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway — 
It  is  enthron''d  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 

ISABELLA. 

Well,  believe  this. 
No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  roba. 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace 
As  mercy  does. 

PORTIA. 

Consider  this — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  ua 
Should  see  salvation.    We  do  pray  for  mercy; 
And  that  same  prayer  aoth  teach  i:s  all  to  rendnr 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 

ISifBEIXA. 

Alas!  alas! 
Why  all  the  souls  that  were,  were  forfeit  ono«; 


18       CHARACTEE8  OF  INTELLECT. 

And  He,  that  might  the  'vantage  best  have  took, 
Foniid  out  the  remedy.    How  would  you  be, 
If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are  ?    0,  think  on  that. 
And  mercy  then  wiU  breathe  within  your  lipe, 
Like  man  new  made  I 

The  beautiful  things  which  Isabella  is  made  ia 
otter,  have,  like  the  sapngs  of  Portia,  become 
proverbial ;  but  in  spirit  and  character  they  are  as 
distinct  as  are  the  two  women.  In  all  that  Portia 
Bays,  we  confess  the  power  of  a  rich  poetical  imag- 
ination, blended  with  a  quick  practical  spirit  of 
observation,  familiar  with  the  surfaces  of  things, 
while  there  is  a  profound  yet  simple  morality,  a 
depth  of  reli^ous  feeling,  a  touch  of  melancholy,  in 
Isabella's  sentiments,  and  something  earnest  and 
authoritative  in  the  manner  and  expression,  as 
though  they  had  grown  up  in  her  mind  from  long 
and  deep  meditation  in  the  silence  and  solitude  ol 
her  convent  cell :  — 

0  it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant. 

Could  great  men  thunder, 
As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet: 
For  every  pelting,  petty  officer 

Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder;  nothing  but  thand«f 
Merciful  Heaven! 

Thou  rather  with  thy  sharp  ani  sulphurous  bolt 
Iplit'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak 
Thau  the  soft  myrtle.    0  but  man,  proud  man  I 


ISABELLA.  it 

Drest  iii  a  little  brief  authority. 

Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assured. 

His  glassy  essence,  like  an  angry  ape, 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  hMiren, 

As  make  the  angels  weep. 

Great  men  may  jest  with  saints,  'tis  wit  in  them; 
But  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 
That  in  the  captain's  but  a  choleric  word, 
Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Authority,  although  it  err  like  others, 

Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself 

That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top.     Go  to  youi  bosom; 

Knock  there,  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  doth  knoK 

That's  like  my  brother's  fault:  if  it  confess 

A  natural  guUtiness  such  as  his  is, 

Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  U>agae 

Against  my  brother's  life. 

Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good, 
But  graciously  to  know  I  am  na  better. 

The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension; 
And  the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  upon, 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 

As  when  a  giant  dies . 

I 

'Tis  not  imposs.ible 
But  one,  the  wicked'st  caitiflf  on  the  ground, 
May  seem  as  shy,  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute 
As  Angelo ;  even  so  may  Angelo, 
In  all  his  dressings,  characts,  titles,  forms, 
Be  an  arch  villain. 

Bei  fine  powers  of  reasouing,  and  that  nattira} 


#. 


90  CHARACTERS   OK   ETTELLECT. 

aprightness  and  purity  which  no  sophistry  cm. 
warp,  and  no  allurement  betray,  are  farther  di» 
played  in  the  second  scene  with  Angela 

ANOEIiO. 

What  would  you  do? 

ISABELLA. 

As  much  for  my  poor  brother  as  myself; 

That  is,  were  I  under  the  terms  of  death, 

The  impression  of  keen  whips  I'd  wear  as  mbiet| 

And  strip  myself  to  death  as  to  a  bed 

That,  longing,  I  have  been  sick  for,  ere  I'd  yield 

My  body  up  to  shame. 

ANOELO. 

Then  must  your  brother  die. 


And  'twere  the  cheaper  way; 
Better  it  were  a  brother  died  at  once, 
Than  that  a  sister,  by  redeeming  him, 
Should  die  forever. 


Were  you  not  then  cruel  as  the  sentenoe, 
That  you  hare  slander'd  so  1 

ISABELLA. 

Ignominy  in  ransom,  and  fi%e  pardon, 
Are  of  two  houses:  lawful  mercy  is 
Nothing  akin  to  foul  redemption. 

ASOKLO. 

Tou  seem'd  of  late  to  make  the  law  a  tynrnt; 


ISABELLA  f] 

And  rather  proved  the  sliding  of  your  brother 
A  merriment  than  a  vice. 

ISABELLA. 

0  pardon  me,  my  lord;  it  oft  falls  out, 

To  have  what  we'd  have,  we  speak  not  what  we  metn: 

1  something  do  excuse  the  thing  I  hate, 
For  Ids  advantage  that  I  dearly  love. 

Towards  tiie  conclusion  of  the  play  we  have 
another  instance  of  that  ri^d  sense  of  justice, 
which  is  a  prominent  part  of  Isabella's  character, 
and  almost  silences  her  earnest  intercession  for  her 
brother,  when  his  fault  is  placed  between  her  plea 
and  her  conscience.  The  Duke  condemns  the  vil- 
lain Angelo  to  death,  and  his  wife  Mariana  entreats 
Isabella  to  plead  for  him. 

Sweet  Isabel,  take  my  part, 
Lend  me  your  knees,  and  all  my  life  to  come 
I'U  lend  you  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 

Isabella  remains  suent,  and  Mariana  reiterates 
her  prayer. 

MARIANA. 

Sweet  Isabel,  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me. 

Hold  up  your  hands,  say  nothing,  I'll  speak  alll 

0  Isabel !  will  you  not  lend  a  knee  ? 

Isabella,  thus  urged,  breaks  silence  and  appeala 
to  the  Duke,  not  with  supplication,  or  persuasion, 
iut  with  grave  argument,  and  a  kind  of  dignified 
iumiUty  and  conscious  power,  whijh  are  finelj 
characteristic  of  tb<?  individual  woman 


1^  CHAUACISUS    OF    LNTELLECr. 

Most  bonnteons  Sir, 
Lock,  if  It  please  you,  on  this  man  condemn'd, 
As  if  my  brother  liv'd ;  I  partly  think 
A  due  sincerity  povern'd  his  deeds 
Till  he  did  look  on  me;  since  it  is  so 
Let  him  not  die.    My  brothe'  had  but  ju«Mo«, 
In  that  he  did  the  thing  for  which  he  died. 
For  Angelo, 

iTis  art  did  not  o'ertake  his  oad  intent, 
That  perish'd  by  the  way:  thoughts  are  no  subjectl^ 
Intents,  but  merely  thoughts. 

In  this  instance,  as  in  the  one  before  mentioned, 
Isabella's  conscientiousness  is  overcome  by  the  only 
Bendment  which  ought  to  temper  justice  into  mercy, 
the  power  of  affection  and  sympathy. 

Isabella's  confession  of  the  general  frailty  of  her 
BCx,  has  a  peculiar  softness,  beauty,  and  propriety. 
She  admits  the  imputation  with  all  the  sjTnpathy 
of  woman  for  woman ;  yet  with  all  the  dignity  of 
one  who  felt  her  own  superiority  to  the  weaknesi 
ihe  acknowledges. 

ANOEXO. 

Naj,  women  axe  frail  toa 


Ay,  as  the  glasses  whore  they  view  themselves ; 
Which  are  as  easy  broke  as  they  make  forma. 
Women !  help  heaven !  men  their  creation  mar 
In  profiting  by  them.    Nay,  call  us  ten  times  frafl, 
For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are, 
And  credulous  to  false  prints. 

Nor  should  we  fail  to  remark  the  deeper  I'ntcreif 


ISABELLA.  93 

irliioh  is  thrown  round  Isabella,  by  one  part  of  her 
character,  which  is  betrayed  rather  than  exhibited 
in  the  progress  of  the  action  ;  and  for  which  we  are 
not  at  first  prepared,  though  it  is  so  perfectly  nat- 
ural. It  is  the  strong  under-current  of  passion  and 
enthusiasm  flowing  beneath  this  calm  and  saintly 
self-possession ;  it  is  the  capacity  for  high  feeling 
and  generous  and  strong  indignation,  veiled  beneath 
the  sweet  austere  composure  of  the  religious  re- 
cluse, which,  by  the  very  force  of  contrast,  power- 
fully impress  the  imagination.  As  we  see  in  real 
life  that  where,  from  some  external  or  habitual 
cause,  a  strong  control  is  exercised  over  naturally 

piick  feelings  and  an  impetuous  temper,  they  dis- 
play themselves  with  a  proportionate  vehemence 
when  that  restraint  is  removed ;  so  the  very  vio- 
lence with  which  her  passions  burst  forth,  when  op- 
posed or  under  the  influence  of  strong  excitement, 

s  admirably  characteristic. 

Tluis  in  her  exclamation,  when  she  first  allowii 
Herself  to  perceive  Angelo's  vile  design — 

ISABELLA. 

Ha !  little  honor  to  be  much  believed, 

And  most  pernicions  purpose ; — seeming ! — seeming 

I  will  proclaim  thee,  Angelo :  look  for  it  I 

Sign  me  a  present  pardon  for  my  brother, 

Or  with  an  outstretched  throat  I'll  tell  the  world 

Alond,  what  man  thou  art ! 

And  again,  where  she  findr  that  the  "  outwsrd 
tainted  deputy,"  has,  deceived  her — 


•4  CHARACTERS   OK   INTBXLEOT. 

0  I  wQl  to  him,  and  plnck  oat  his  ey«6 1 
Unhappy  Claudio!  wretched  Isabel  I 
Injurious  world !  most  damned  Aogelo ! 

She  places  at  first  a  strong  a.v4.  high-souled  coa- 
fiJence  in  her  brother's  fortitu(<.  and  naagnanimitj 
judging  him  by  her  own  lofty  spirit : 

I'll  to  my  brother; 
Though  he  hath  fallen  by  prompture  of  the  blood, 
Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honor, 
That  had  lie  twenty  heads  to  tender  down, 
On  twenty  bloody  blocks,  he'd  yield  them  up 
Before  his  sister  should  her  body  stoop 
To  such  abhorr'd  pollution. 

But  when  her  trust  in  his  honor  is  deceived  by 
hia  momentary  weakness,  her  scorn  has  a  bitter- 
ness,  and  her  indignation  a  force  of  expression  al- 
most fearful ;  and  both  are  carried  to  an  extremOj 
which  is  perfectly  in  character : 

0  faithless  coward !     0  dishonest  wretch ! 

Wilt  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice? 

Is't  not  a  kind  of  incest  to  take  life 

From  thine  own  sister's  shame?  \Miat  should  I  thiok* 

Hea^'on  shield,  my  mother  play'd  my  father  fair  I 

For  such  a  Warped  slip  of  wilderness 

Ne'er  issued  from  his  blood.    Take  my  defiance; 

Die !  perish !  might  but  my  bending  down, 

Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed* 

I'll  pray  a  thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, 

No  word  to  save  thoo. 


ISABELLA.  95 

The  whole  of  this  scene  with  Claudio  is  inexpres- 
libly  grand  in  the  poetry  and  the  sentiment ;  and 
the  entire  play  abounds  in  those  passages  and 
phrases  which  must  have  become  trite  from  familiar 
and  constant  use  and  abuse,  if  their  wisdom  and 
unequalled  beauty  did  not  invest  them  with  an  im- 
mortal freshness  and  vigor,  and  a  perpetual  charm. 

The  story  of  Measure  for  Measure  is  a  tradition 
of  great  antiquity,  of  which  there  are  several  ver- 
sions, narrative  and  dramatic.  A  contemptible 
tragedy,  the  Promos  and  Cassandra  of  George 
Whetstone,  is  supposed,  from  various  coinci<lences, 
to  have  furnished  Shakspeare  with  the  groundwork 
of  the  play ;  but  the  character  of  Isabella  is,  in  con- 
ception and  execution,  all  his  own.  The  connnen- 
tators  have  collected  with  infinite  industry  all  the 
sources  of  the  plot ;  but  to  the  grand  creation  of 
Isabella,  they  award  either  silence  or  worse  than 
silence.  Johnson  and  the  rest  of  the  black-letter 
crew,  pass  over  her  without  a  word.  One  critic,  a 
lady-critic  too,  wl  ose  name  I  will  be  so  merciful  as 
to  suppress,  treats  Isabella  as  a  coarse  vixen.  Haz- 
litt,  with  that  strange  perversion  of  sentiment  and 
want  of  taste  which  sometimes  mingle  with  his 
piercing  and  powerful  intellect,  dismisses  Isabella 
with  a  shght  remark,  that  "we  are  not  greatl) 
enamoured  of  her  rigid  chastity,  nor  can  feel  much 
confidence  in  the  virtue  that  is  sublimely  good  at 
another's  expense."  ^Vhat  shall  we  answer  to  such 
?ritlcism  ?  Upon  what  ground  can  we  read  the 
ulay  from  beginning  to  end,  and  doubt  the  angel- 


Sn  CHARACTERS   OK   INTKLLECT 

punty  of  Isabella,  or  contemplate  lier  possible  lapM 
from  virtue  ?  Such  gratuitous  mistrust  is  here  • 
•ill  against  the  light  of  heaven. 

Having  waste  ground  enough^ 
Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  sanctuary, 
And  pitch  our  evils  there  ? 

Professor  Richardson  is  more  just,  and  truly 
Buins  up  her  character  as  "  amiable,  pious,  sen- 
sible, resolute,  determined,  and  eloquent : "  but  hit 
remarks  are  rather  superficial. 

Schlegel's  observations  are  also  brief  and  gen- 
eral, and  in  no  way  distinguish  Isabella  from  many 
other  characters ;  neither  did  his  plan  allow  him  to 
be  more  minute.  Of  the  play  altogether,  he  ob 
serves  ver)'  beautifully,  "  that  the  title  Measure  foi 
Measure  is  in  reaUty  a  misnomer,  the  sense  of  the 
whole  bemg  properly  the  triumph  of  mercy  over 
strict  justice : "  but  it  is  also  true  that  there  is  "  an 
original  sin  in  the  nature  of  the  subject,  which 
prevents  us  from  taking  a  cordial  interest  in  it."* 
Of  all  the  characters,  Isabella  alone  has  our  sym- 
pathy. But  though  she  triumphs  in  the  conclusion, 
her  triumph  is  not  produced  in  a  pleasing  manner. 
There  are  too  many  disguises  and  tricks,  too  many 
"bv-paths  and  indirect  crooked  ways,"  to  conduct 
us  to  tne  natural  and  foreseen  catastrophe,  whicl 
the  Duke's  presence  throughout  renders  inevitable. 
This  Duke  seems  to  have  a  predilection  for  bring. 
\ng  about  justice  by  a  most  unjustifiable  succession 

*  Characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays. 


ISABELLA.  97 

of  rafcelioods  ana  counterplots.  He  really  deserve* 
Luciu'«  satirical  designation,  who  somewnere  styles 
him  "The  Fantastical  Duke  of  Dark  Comers." 
But  Isabella  is  ever  consistent  in  her  pure  and  up- 
right aimplicity,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  simulation, 
expresses  a  characteristic  disapprobation  of  the 
part  she  is  made  to  play, 

To  speak  so  indirectly  I  am  loth : 

I  ■would  say  the  truth.* 

(She  yields  to  the  supposed  Friar  with  a  kind  of 
forced  docility,  because  her  situation  as  a  religious 
novice,  and  his  station,  habit,  and  authority,  as  her 
spiritual  director,  demand  this  sacrifice.  In  the 
end  we  are  made  to  feel  that  her  transition  from 
the  convent  to  the  throne  has  but  placed  this  noble 
creature  in  her  natural  sphere :  for  though  Isabella, 
as  Duchess  of  Vienna,  could  not  more  command 
our  highest  reverence  than  Isabella,  the  novice  of 
Saint  Clare,  yet  a  wider  range  of  usefulness  and 
benevolence,  of  trial  and  action,  was  better  suited 
to  the  large  capacity,  the  ardent  affections,  the 
energetic  intellect,  and  firm  principle  of  such  a 
woman  as  Isabella,  than  the  walls  of  a  cloister. 
The  philosophical  Duke  observes  in  the  very  first 

■cene — 

Spirits  are  not  finely  touched, 
But  to  fine  issues :  nor  nature  never  lends 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 
But  like  a  thrifty  goddess  she  determines, 
Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 
Bath  thanks  and  cse.f 

•  Act  It.  Scone  5.  t  Vse  \.  e.  usury,  ii.ter«at. 

r 


18  CHARACTEKS   OF  INTELLECT. 

This  profound  and  beautiful  sentiment  is  illa» 
trated  in  the  character  and  destiny  of  Isabella. 
She  says,  of  herself,  that  '  she  has  spirit  to  act 
whatever  her  heart  approves ; "  and  what  her  heart 
approves  we  know. 

In  the  convent,  (which  may  stand  here  poeticaUy 
for  any  narrow  and  obscure  situation  in  which 
euch  a  woman  might  be  placed,)  Isabella  would 
not  have  been  unhappy,  but  happiness  would  have 
been  the  result  of  an  effort,  or  of  the  concentration 
of  her  great  mental  powers  to  some  particular  pur- 
pose; as  St.  Theresa's  intellect,  enthusiasm,  ten- 
derness, restless  activity,  and  burning  eloquence, 
governed  by  one  overpowering  sentiment  of  devo- 
tion, rendered  her  the  most  extraordinary  of  saints. 
Isabella,  like  St.  Theresa,  complains  that  the  rules 
of  her  order  are  not  sufficiently  severe,  and  from 
the  same  cause, — that  from  the  consciousness  of 
strong  intellectual  and  imaginative  power,  and  of 
overflowing  sensibility,  she  desires  a  more  "  strict 
restraint,"  or,  from  the  continual,  involuntary 
(traggle  against  the  trammels  imposed,  feek  tti 
n&:c88ity. 

ISABELLA. 

And  have  you  nuns  no  farther  privileges  ? 

FKANCISCA. 

Are  not  these  large  enough? 

ISABELLA. 

Yea,  tmly;  I  speak,  not  as  desiring  more. 
But  rather  wishing  a  more  strict  reslnliit 
Upon  the  sisterhood  I 


BEATRICE.  99 

Such  women  as  Desdemona  and  Ophelia  would 
>ave  jiassed  their  lives  in  the  seclusion  of  a  nun- 
nery, without  wishing,  like  Isabella,  for  stricter 
Donds,  or  planning,  like  St.  Theresa,  the  reforma- 
tion of  their  order,  simply,  because  any  restraint 
would  have  been  efficient,  as  far  as  they  were  con- 
cerned. Isabella,  "  dedicate  to  nothing  temporal," 
might  have  found  resignation  through  self  govern- 
ment, or  have  become  a  religious  enthusiast :  while 
"  place  and  greatness  "  would  have  appeared  to  her 
strong  and  upright  mind,  only  a  more  extended 
field  of  action,  a  trust  and  a  trial.  The  mere  trap- 
pings of  power  and  state,  the  gemmed  coronal,  the 
ermined  robe,  she  would  have  regarded  as  the  out^ 
ward  emblems  of  her  earthly  profession ;  and  would 
have  worn  them  with  as  much  simplicity  as  her 
novice's  hood  and  scapular ;  still,  under  whatever 
guise  she  might  tread  this  thorny  world — the  same 
*  angel  of  light" 


BEATRICE. 

Shakbpeare  has  exhibited  in  Beatrice  a  spir- 
ited and  faithful  portrait  of  the  fine  lady  of  hit 
»wn  time.  The  deportment,  language,  manners,  ana 
alliisir>ns,  are  those  of  a  particular  class  in  a  partic- 
olar  age;  but  the  individuaJ  and  di-amatic  char- 
Acter    which  forms  the   groimdwork,   is  strongly 


»00  CHARACTERS   OP   INTELLECT. 

iis^riminated  ■  and  being  taken  from  general  d«> 
Mre,  belongs  to  every  age.  In  Beatrice,  high 
jitellect  and  high  animal  spirits  meet,  and  excite 
3ach  other  like  fire  and  air.  In  her  wit  (which  is 
brilliant  without  being  imaginative)  there  is  a 
touch  of  insolence,  not  unfrequent  in  women  wheu 
the  wit  predominates  over  reflection  and  imagina- 
tion. In  her  temper,  too,  there  is  a  slight  infusion 
of  the  termagant ;  and  her  satirical  humor  plays 
with  such  an  unrespective  levity  over  all  subjects 
alike,  that  it  required  a  profound  knowledge  of 
women  to  bring  such  a  character  within  the  peile 
of  our  sympathy.  But  Beatrice,  though  wilful,  is 
not  wayward ;  she  is  volatile,  not  unfeeling.  She 
has  not  only  an  exuberance  of  wit  and  gayety,  but 
of  heart,  and  soul,  and  energy  of  spirit ;  and  is  no 
more  like  the  fine  ladies  of  modem  comedy, — 
whose  wit  consists  in  a  temporary  allusion,  or  a 
play  upon  words,  and  whose  petulance  is  displayed 
in  a  toss  of  the  head,  a  flirt  of  the  fan,  or  a  flour- 
ish of  the  pocket  handkerchief, — than  one  of  our 
modern  dandies  is  Uke  Sir  Phihp  Sydney. 

In  Beatrice,  Shakspeare  has  contrived  that  the 
poetry  of  the  character  shall  not  only  soften,  but 
.leighten  its  comic  efl*ect  We  are  not  only  in- 
clined to  forgive  Beatrice  all  her  scornful  airs,  all 
her  biting  jests,  all  her  assumption  of  superiority ; 
but  they  amuse  and  delight  us  the  mare,  when  w« 
find  her,  with  all  the  headlong  simj)licity  of  a  child, 
tailing  at  once  into  the  snare  laid  for  her  afleo 
tions;  when  wo  see  her,  who  thought  a  man  of 


BEATRICE.  101 

Bod's  making  not  good  enough  for  her,  who  db- 
djiined  to  be  o'ennastered  by  "  a  piece  of  valian 
iust,"  stooping  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  vailing  her 
proud  spirit,  and  taming  her  wild  heart  to  the  lov- 
mg  hand  of  him  whom  she  had  scorned,  flouted, 
and  misused,  "past  the  endurance  of  a  block." 
And  we  are  yet  more  completely  won  by  her  gen- 
erous enthusiastic  attachment  to  her  cousin.  When 
the  father  of  Hero  believes  the  tale  of  her  guilt 
when  Claudio,  her  lover,  without  remorse  or  a  lin- 
gering doubt,  consigns  her  to  shame;  when  the 
Friar  remains  silent,  and  the  generous  Benedick 
himself  knows  not  what  to  say,  Beatrice,  confident 
in  her  affections,  and  guided  only  by  the  impulses 
of  her  own  feminine  heart,  sees  through  the  incon- 
sistency, the  impossibility  of  the  charge,  and  ex- 
claims, without  a  moment's  hesitation, 

0,  on  my  soul,  my  coosin  is  belied ! 

Schlegel,  in  his  remarks  on  the  play  of  "  Much 
Ado  about  nothing,"  has  given  us  an  amusing  in- 
stance of  that  sense  of  reality  with  which  we  are 
impressed  by  Shakspeare's  characters.  He  says  of 
Benedick  and  Beatrice,  as  if  he  had  known  them 
personally,  that  the  exclusive  direction  of  their 
pointed  raillery  against  each  other  "  is  a  proof  of  a 
growing  inclination."  This  is  rot  unlikely;  and 
the  same  inference  would  lead  us  to  suppose  that 
Ihifi  mutual  incUnation  had  commenced  oefore  the 
opening  of  the  play.  Tlie  very  first  words  utterei 
hy  Beatrice  are  an  inquiry  after  Benedick,  thougli 
»jcpresscd  with  her  usual  arch  impertinence  :  — ■ 


102  CUAUACl'ERS   OF   INIELLECT. 

I  pray  jou,  is  Signior  Montanto  returned  tram  tht 
wars,  or  no  ? 

I  pray  you,  how  many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  it 
these  wars?  Bat  bow  many  hath  he  killed?  for  indeed  I 
promised  to  eat  all  of  his  killing. 

And  in  the  unprovoked  hostility  with  which  8h« 
falls  upon  him  in  his  absence,  in  the  pertinacity 
and  bitterness  of  her  satire,  there  is  certainly  great 
argument  that  he  occupies  much  more  of  her 
vuoughta  than  she  would  have  been  willing  to  con- 
fess, even  to  herself.  In  the  same  manner  Bene- 
dick betrays  a  lurking  partiality  for  his  fascinating 
enemy ;  he  shows  that  he  has  looked  upon  hei 
with  no  careless  eye,  when  he  says, 

There's  her  cousin,  (meaning  Beatrice,)  an'  she  wer« 
not  possessed  with  a  fury,  excels  her  as  much  in  beauty 
as  the  first  of  May  does  the  last  of  December. 

Infinite  skill,  as  well  as  humor,  is  shown  in  mak- 
ing this  pair  of  airy  beings  the  exact  counterpart 
of  each  other;  but  of  the  two  portrait",  that  of 
Benedick  is  by  far  the  most  pleasing,  because  the 
independence  and  gay  indifference  of  temper,  the 
laughing  defiance  of  love  and  marriage,  the  satirical 
freedom  of  expression,  common  to  both,  ire  more 
becoming  to  the  masculine  than  to  the  feminine 
character.  Any  woman  might  love  such  a  cavalier 
t3  Benedick,  and  be  proud  of  his  affection ;  hig 
valor,  his  wit,  and  his  gayety  sit  so  gracefully  upon 
nim  I  and  his  light  scoffs  against  the  power  of  love 
»re  but  just  sufficient  to  render  more  pi<|uant  th« 
>o  iquost  of  this  "  heretic  in  despite  ol"  beauty. 


BEATRICE.  lOS 

But  a  man  might  well  be  pardoned  Tvho  should 
thriuk  from  encountering  such  a  spiiit  as  that  of 
Beatrice,  unless,  indeed,  he  had  "served  an  ap- 
prenticeship to  the  taming  school."  The  wit  of 
Beatrice  is  less  good-himiored  than  that  of  Bene- 
dick; or,  from  the  difference  of  sex,  appears  so. 
It  is  observable  that  the  power  is  throughout  on 
oer  side,  and  the  sympathy  and  interest  on  his : 
which,  by  reversing  the  usual  order  of  things, 
seems  to  excite  us  against  the  grain,  if  I  may  use 
Buch  an  expression.  In  all  their  encounters  sh^ 
constantly  gets  the  better  of  him,  and  the  gentle- 
man's wits  go  off  halting,  if  he  is  not  himself  fairly 
hors  de  combat.  Beatrice,  woman-like,  generally 
has  the  first  word,  and  will  have  the  last.  Thus, 
when  they  first  meet,  she  be^ns  by  provoking  tho 
merry  warfare :  — 

I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signior  Bene- 
dick; nobody  marks  you. 

BENEDICK. 

What,  my  dear  Lady  Disdain  I  are  you  yet  living? 

BEATRICE. 

Is  it  possible  Disdain  should  die,  while  she  hath  such 
meet  food  to  feed  it  as  Signior  Benedick?  Courtesy 
tself  must  convert  to  disdain,  if  you  come  in  her  pres- 
vice. 

It  is  clear  that  she  cannot  for  a  moment  endure 
Ids  neglect,  and  he  can  as  littl*^  tolerate  her  scorn. 
Sothing  that  Benediclr  addresses  to  Beatrice  per- 


i04  CHARACTERS   OF   INTELLECT. 

•onally  can  equal  the  malicious  force  of  some  of 
her  attacks  upon  him :  he  is  either  restrained  hj  a 
feeling  of  natural  gallanby,  Uttle  as  she  deservea 
the  consideration  due  to  her  sex,  (for  a  female 
satirist  ever  places  herself  beyond  the  pale  of  such 
forbearance,)  or  he  is  subdued  by  her  superior 
vdI  ability.  He  revenges  himself,  however,  in  her 
absence:  he  abuses  her  with  such  a  variety  of 
comic  invective,  and  pours  forth  his  pent-up  wrath 
with  such  a  ludicrous  extravagance  and  exaggera- 
tion, that  he  betrays  at  once  how  deep  is  his  morti- 
fication, and  how  unreal  his  enmity. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  tilting  and  sparring  of 
their  nimble  and  fiery  wits,  we  find  them  infinitely 
anxious  for  the  good  opinion  of  each  other,  ana 
secretly  impatient  of  each  other's  scorn :  but  Bea- 
trice is  the  most  truly  indifferent  of  the  two ;  the 
most  assured  of  herself.  The  comic  effect  pro- 
duced by  their  mutual  attachment,  which,  however 
natural  and  expected,  comes  upon  us  with  all  the 
force  of  a  surprise,  cannot  be  surpassed :  and  hon 
exquisitely  characteristic  the  mutual  avowal  1 

BENEDICK. 

B}  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

BEATRICB. 

Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 


BENEDICK. 

1  win  Bwear  by  it  that  you  love  me;  and  I  will 
Um  eat  it,  that  says,  I  love  not  you. 


B£ATKICB.  105 

BEATRICE. 

Win  70U  not  eat  yo'ir  word? 

BEXEPICK. 

With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it:  IprotMt,] 
ioTe  thee. 

BEATRICE. 

Why,  then,  God  forgive  me ! 

BENEDICK. 

What  offence,  ^weet  Beatrice  ? 

BEATRICE. 

You  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour.  I  was  about  to  pro- 
rest,  I  loved  you. 

BENEDICK. 

And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

BEATRICE. 

I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that  there  is 
none  left  to  protest. 

But  here  again  the  dominion  rests  with  Beatrice, 
and  she  appears  in  a  less  amiable  light  than  her 
lover.  Benedick  surrenders  his  whole  heart  to  her 
and  to  his  new  passion.  The  revulsion  of  feeling 
even  causes  it  to  overflow  in  an  excess  of  fond- 
ness ;  but  with  Beatrice  temper  has  still  tlie  mas- 
tery. The  affection  of  Benedick  induces  him  to 
challenge  his  intimate  triend  for  her  sake,  but  the 
affection  of  Beatrice  does  not  prevent  her  from 
asking  the  life  of  her  lover. 

The  character  of  Hero  is  well  contrasted  with 
Uiat  of  Beatrice,  and  their  muhial  attachment  k 


i06  CUARACTEUS   OF   INTELLKCT. 

rery  beautiful  and  natural.  Wben  they  are  botk 
on  the  scene  together,  Hero  has  but  little  to  say 
for  herself:  Beatrice  asserts  the  rule  of  a  master 
spirit,  ecUpses  her  by  her  mental  superiority, 
abashes  her  by  her  raillery,  dictates  to  her,  an- 
swers for  her,  and  would  fain  inspire  her  gentle* 
hearted  cousin  with  some  of  her  own  assurance. 

Yes,  faith ;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  a  curtsey, 
and  say,  "  Father,  as  it  please  you;"  but  yet,  for  aD 
that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or  else  make 
another  curtsey,  and, "  Father,  as  it  please  me." 

But  Shakspeare  knew  well  how  to  make  one  char- 
acter subordinate  to  another,  without  sacrificing 
the  slightest  portion  of  its  effect ;  and  Hero,  added 
to  her  grace  and  softness,  and  all  the  interest  which 
attaches  to  her  as  the  sentimental  heroine  of  the 
play,  possesses  an  intellectual  beauty  of  her  own. 
When  she  has  Beatrice  at  an  advantage,  she  re- 
pays her  with  interest,  in  the  severe,  but  most 
animated  and  elegant  picture  she  draws  of  her 
cousin's  imperious  character  and  unbridled  levity 
of  tongue.  The  portrait  is  a  little  overcharged, 
because  administered  as  a  corrective,  and  intended 
lo  be  overheard. 

But  nature  never  fram'd  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice  : 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Mispriainfi;  what  they  look  on;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak ;  she  cannot  loir*, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 


BEATRICE.  *  101 

URSVLA. 

Bon,  snro,  such  earplug  is  not  commendabl* 

HEIIO. 

No :  not  to  bo  so  odd,  and  from  all  faahions, 
As  Beatrice  is  cannot  be  commendable : 
But  who  dare  teU  her  so  'i    If  I  should  speak, 
She'd  mock  me  into  air:  0  she  would  laugh  m% 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  iet  Benedick,  like  cover'd  fire, 
Consume  away  Ln  sighs,  waste  inwardly: 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks, 
Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling. 

Beatnce  never  appears  to  greater  advantage 
llian  in  her  soliloquy  after  leaving  her  conceal- 
ment "  in  the  pleached  bower  where  honeysuckles, 
ripened  by  the  sun,  forbid  the  sun  to  enter ; "  she 
exclaims,  after  listening  to  this  tirade  against  hei^ 
Bclf, — 

What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  ?    Can  this  be  true  ? 

Staud  I  condemned  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much? 

The  sense  of  wounded  vanity  is  lost  in  bitter  feel- 
ings, and  she  is  infinitely  more  struck  by  what  \a 
flaid  in  praise  of  Benedick,  and  the  history  of  hia 
BU).posed  love  for  her  than  by  the  dispraise  of  her 
■elf.  The  immediate  success  of  the  trick  is  a  mosl 
natural  consequence  of  the  self-assurance  and  mag- 
aanimity  of  her  character ;  she  is  so  accustomed  to 
Msert  dominion  over  the  spirits  of  others,  that  she 
e&anot  suspect  the  possibility  of  a  plot  laid  against 
herself. 
A  haughty,  excitable,  aai  violent  temper  ia  an 


08  *  CHARACTERS   OF   INTELLECT. 

Other  of  the  characteristics  of  Beatrice ;  but  there 
is  more  of  impulse  than  of  passion  in  her  vehe* 
inence.  In  the  marriage  scene  where  she  has  be- 
held her  gentle-spirited  cousin, — whom  she  lovet 
(he  more  for  those  very  qualities  which  are  most 
unlike  her  own, — slandered,  deserted,  and  devoted 
to  public  shame,  her  indignation,  and  the  eager- 
ness with  which  she  hungers  and  thirsta  a£tei 
revenge,  are,  like  the  rest  of  her  character,  open, 
ardent.  Impetuous,  but  not  deep  or  implacable. 
When  she  bursts  Into  that  outrageous  speech — 

Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain  that  hath 
slandered,  scorned,  dishonored  my  kinswoman  ?  0  that 
1  Wire  a  man !  What !  bear  her  in  hand  mitil  they  come 
to  take  hands ;  and  then,  with  public  accusation,  uncov- 
ered slander,  unmitigated  rancor — 0  God,  that  I  were  a 
man!  I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the  market-placei 

And  when  she  commands  her  lover,  as  the  first 
proof  of  his  affection,  "  to  kill  Claudio,"  the  very 
consciousness  of  the  exaggeration, — of  the  contrast 
between  the  real  good-nature  of  Beatrice  and  the 
fierce  tenor  of  her  language,  keeps  alive  the  comic 
effect,  mingling  the  ludicrous  with  the  serious.  It 
IS  remarkable  that,  notwithstanding  the  point  and 
vivacity  of  the  dialogue,  few  of  the  speeches  ol 
Beatrice  are  capable  of  a  general  application,  •!• 
engrave  themselves  distinctly  on  the  memory ;  they 
contain  more  mirth  than  matter ;  and  though  wil 
De  the  predominant  feature  in  the  dramatic  por 
trait,  Beatrice  more  charms  and  dazzles  us  by  what 
ihe  is  than  by  what  she  says.    It  is  not  mere!*  bet 


BEATRICE  109 

Bparlling  repartees  and  saucy  jests,  it  is  the  soul 
of  wit,  and  the  spirit  of  gayety  iu  fcming  the  whole 
character, — ^looking  out  from  her  brilliant  eyes,  and 
laughing  on  her  full  lips  that  pout  with  scorn.-— 
which  we  have  before  us,  moving  and  full  of  life 
On  the  whole,  we  dismiss  Benedick  and  Beatrice 
to  their  matrimonial  bonds  rather  with  a  sense  of 
amusement  than  a  feeling  of  congratulation  or  sym- 
pathy ;  rather  with  an  acknowledgment  that  they 
are  well-matched,  and  worthy  of  each  other  than 
with  any  well-founded  expectation  of  their  domes- 
tic tranquillity.  If,  as  Benedick  asserts,  they  are 
both  "  too  wise  to  woo  peaceably,"  it  may  be  added 
that  both  are  too  wise,  too  witty,  and  too  wilful  to 
live  peaceably  together.  We  have  some  misgiv- 
ings about  Beatrice — some  apprehensions  that 
poor  Benedick  wiU  not  escape  the  "  predestinated 
scratched  face,"  which  he  had  foretold  to  him  who 
should  win  and  wear  this  quick-witted  and  pleasant- 
spirited  lady;  yet  when  we  recollect  that  to  the 
wit  and  imperious  temper  of  Beatrice  is  united  a 
jnagnanimity  of  spirit  which  would  naturally  place 
her  far  above  aU  selfishness,  and  all  paltry  strug- 
gles for  power — when  we  perceive,  in  the  midst  of 
ner  sarcastic  levity  and  volubility  of  tongue,  so 
much  of  generous  aftection,  and  such  a  high  sense 
of  female  virtue  and  honor,  we  are  inclined  to  hope 
the  best.  We  think  it  possible  that  though  the 
gentleman  may  now  and  then  swear,  and  the  lady 
ycold,  the  native  good-humor  of  the  one,  the  reaUy 
fine   understanding  of  the  other,  and  the  valu* 


^tO  CHABACTERS   OF   INTELLECT. 

Ihcy  8o  evidently  attach  to  each  other's  e8te<T»% 
will  cu8ui:e  them  a  tolerable  portion  of  domestio 
felicity,  and  In  this  hope  we  leave  them. 


"mi" 


ROSALIND. 

1  COME  now  to  Rosalind,  whom  I  should  haye 
ranked  before  Beatrice,  inasmuch  as  the  greater 
degree  of  her  sex's  softness  and  sensibility,  united 
with  equal  wit  and  intellect,  give  her  the  superiority 
as  a  woman  ;  but  that,  as  a  dramatic  character,  she 
Is  inferior  in  force.  The  portrait  is  one  of  infinitely 
more  delicacy  and  variety,  but  of  less  strength  and 
depth.  It  is  easy  to  seize  on  the  prominent  feat- 
ures in  the  mind  of  Beatrice,  but  extremely  diffi- 
cult to  catch  and  fix  the  more  fanciful  graces  of 
Rosalind.  She  is  like  a  compound  of  essences,  so 
volatile  in  their  nature,  and  so  exquisitely  blended, 
that  on  any  attempt  to  analyze  them,  they  seem  to 
escape  us.  To  what  else  shall  we  compare  her, 
all-enchanting  as  she  is  ? — to  the  silvery  summer 
clouds  which,  even  while  we  gaze  on  them,  shift 
their  hues  and  forms  dissolving  into  air,  and  light, 
and  rainbow  showers  ? — ^to  the  May-morning,  flush 
irith  opening  blossoms  and  roseate  dews,  and 
"charm  of  earliest  birds?" — to  some  wild  antf 
beautifid  melody,  such    as    some    shepherd    bo« 


ROSALIND.  Ill 

akght  "  pipe  to  Amarillis  in  the  shade  ?  "  —  to  a 
mountain  streamlet,  now  smooth  as  a  mirror  in 
which  the  skies  may  glass  themselves,  and  anon 
leaping  and  sparkling  in  the  sunshine — or  rather 
to  the  very  sunshine  itself?  for  so  her  genial  spirit 
touches  into  life  and  beauty  whatever  it  shines  on  I 
But  this  impression,  though  produced  by  the 
complete  development  of  the  character,  and  in 
the  end  possessing  the  whole  fancy,  is  not  imme- 
diate. The  first  introduction  of  Roseilind  is  lesa 
Btriking  than  interesting ;  we  see  her  a  dependant, 
almost  a  captive,  in  the  house  of  her  usurping 
uncle ;  her  genial  spirits  are  subdued  by  her  situa- 
tion, and  the  remembrance  of  her  banished  father 
her  pla}-fulness  is  under  a  temporary  eclipse. 

I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be  merry ! 

is  an  adjuration  which  Rosalind  needed  not  when 
once  at  liberty,  and  sporting  "  under  the  green- 
wood tree."  The  sensibility  and  even  pensivenesa 
of  her  demeanor  in  the  first  instance,  render  her 
archness  and  gayety  afterwards,  more  graceful  and 
more  fascinating. 

Though  Rosalind  is  a  princess,  she  is  a  princess 
of  Arcady;  and  notwithstanding  the  charming 
effect  produced  by  her  first  scenes,  we  scarcely 
ever  think  of  her  with  a  reference  to  them,  or 
associate  her  with  a  court,  and  the  artificial  append- 
ages of  her  rank.  She  was  not  made  to  "  lord  it 
o'er  a  fair  mansion,"  and  vake  state  upon  her  like 
the  aU-3tccomplished  Portia ,  but  to  breathe  the  &ee 


112  CnARACTERS   OF   li^ELLECT. 

Rir  of  heaven,  and  frolic  among  green  leaves.  Sh« 
was  not  made  to  stand  the  siege  of  daring  prodi- 
gacy,  and  oppose  high  action  and  high  passion 
to  the  assaults  of  adverse  fortune,  like  Isabel ;  but 
to  "  fleet  the  time  carelessly  as  they  did  i'  the 
golden  age."  She  was  not  made  to  bandy  wit  with 
lords,  and  tread  courtly  measures  with  plumed  and 
warlik,?  cavaliers,  like  Beatrice ;  but  to  a<ince  on 
the  green  sward,  and  "murmur  among  living 
brooks  a  music  sweeter  than  their  own." 

Tliough  sprightliness  is  the  distinguishing  charac- 
teristic of  Rosalind,  as  of  Beatrice,  yet  we  find  her 
much  more  nearly  allied  to  Portia  in  temper  and 
intellect.  The  tone  of  her  mind  is,  like  Portia's, 
genial  and  buoyant :  she  has  something,  too,  of  her 
softness  and  sentiment ;  there  is  the  same  confiding 
abandonment  of  self  in  her  affections;  but  the 
characters  are  otherwise  as  distinct  as  the  situa- 
tions are  dissimilar.  The  age,  the  manners,  the 
circumstance  in  which  Shakspeare  has  placed  his 
Porba,  are  i-Ot  beyond  the  bounds  of  probability  •, 
nay,  have  a  certain  reality  and  locality.  We 
fancy  her  a  contemporary  of  the  RafTaelles  and  the 
Ariostos;  the  sea-weddec"  Venice,  its  merchants 
and  Magnificos, — the  Rialto,  and  the  long  canals, — 
rise  up  before  us  when  we  think  of  her.  But  Rosa- 
lind is  surrounded  with  the  purely  ideal  and  imag- 
inative ;  the  reality  b  in  the  characters  and  in  the 
■enlimects,  not  in  the  circumstances  or  situatioa 
Portia  is  dignified,  splendid,  and  romantic ;  Rosa* 
Ind  is  playful,  pastoral,  and  picturesque :  both  ar» 


ROSALIKD.  Ill 

m  tlie  hIgLest  degree  poetical,  but  the  one  is  epic 
Rnd  tbe  other  lyric. 

Every  thing  about  Rosalind  breathes  of  "  youth 
and  youth's  sweet  prime."  She  is  fresh  as  the 
niorriing,  sweet  as  the  dew-awakened  blossoms, 
and  light  as  the  breeze  that  plays  among  them. 
She  is  as  witty,  as  voluble,  as  sprightly  as  Bea- 
trice; but  in  a  stj'le  altogether  distinct.  In 
both,  the  wit  is  equally  unconscious ;  but  in  Bea- 
trice it  plays  about  us  like  the  lightning,  dazzling 
but  also  alarming ;  while  the  wit  of  Rosalind  bub- 
bles up  and  sparkles  like  the  living  fountain,  re- 
freshing all  around.  Her  volubiUty  is  like  the 
bird's  song ;  it  is  the  outpouring  of  a  heart  filled  to 
overflowing  with  Ufe,  love,  and  joy,  and  all  sweet 
and  affectionate  impulses.  She  has  as  much  ten- 
derness as  mirth,  and  in  her  most  petulant  raillery 
there  is  a  touch  of  softness — "  By  this  hand,  it  will 
not  hurt  a  fly!"  As  her  vivacity  never  lessens 
our  impression  of  her  sensibiUty,  so  she  wears  her 
masculine  attire  without  the  slighteji  impugnment 
of  her  delicacy.  Shakspeare  did  not  make  the 
modesty  of  his  women  depend  on  their  dress,  aa 
we  shall  see  further  when  we  come  to  Viola  and 
Imogen.  Rosahnd  has  in  truth  "  no  doublet  and 
hose  in  her  disposition."  How  her  heart  seems  to 
throb  and  flutter  under  her  page's  vest!  What 
depth  of  love  in  her  passion  for  Orlando  I  whether 
disguised  beneath  a  saucv  playfulness,  or  breaking 
forth  with  a  fond  unpatience,  or  hiilf  betrayed  in 
that  beautiful  scene  where  sne  faints  at  the  si|^ 
8 


114  CHARACTERS   OF    IKTEIXECT. 

rf  hia  Tterchief  stained  with  his  blood  1  Here  her 
recovery  of  her  self-possession — her  fears  lest  aba 
Bhould  have  revealed  her  sex — her  presence  of 
mind,  and  quick-witted  excuse — 

I  pray  you,  tell  your  brother  how  well  I  connterfeit«d  - 

and  the  characteristic  playfulness  which  seems  to 
return  so  naturally  with  her  recovered  senses, — 
are  all  as  amusing  as  consistent.  Then  how  beauti- 
fully is  the  dialogue  managed  between  herself  and 
Orlando !  how  well  she  assumes  the  airs  of  a  saucy 
page,  without  throwing  off  her  feminine  sweetness  I 
How  her  wit  flutters  free  as  air  over  every  sub- 
ject 1  With  what  a  careless  grace,  yet  with  what 
exquisite  propriety  I 

For  innocence  hath  a  privOege  in  her 
To  dignify  arch  jests  and  laughing  eyes. 

And  if  the  freedom  of  some  of  the  expresaonf 
used  by  Rosalind  or  Beatrice  be  objected  to,  le< 
it  be  remembered  that  this  was  not  the  fault  of 
Shakspeare  or  the  women,  but  generally  of  the 
age.  Portia,  Beatrice,  Rosalind,  and  the  rest 
lived  in  times  when  more  importance  was  attached 
to  things  than  to  words ;  now  we  think  more  of 
words  than  of  things ;  and  happy  are  we  in  thea« 
Vater  days  of  super-refinement,  if  we  are  to  be 
laved  by  our  verbal  morality.  But  this  is  mod- 
iiing  with  the  province  of  the  melancholy  Jaqnes* 
»nd  our  argument  is  Rosalind. 

The  impression  left  upon  our  hearts  and  minjf 


ROSALIXD.  lis 

hy  tLe  character  of  Rosalind — by  the  mixture 
»f  playfulness,  sensibility,  and  wliat  the  French 
(and  we  for  lack  of  a  better  expression)  call  nai- 
vete— is  like  a  delicious  strain  of  music.  There  it 
h  depth  of  delight,  and  a  subtlety  of  •words  to  cx« 
{)re8s  that  delight,  which  Is  enchanting.  Yet  when 
we  call  to  mind  particular  speeches  and  passages, 
we  find  that  they  have  a  relative  beauty  and  pro- 
priety, which  renders  It  difficult  to  separate  them 
from  the  context  without  Injuring  their  eflect. 
She  says  some  of  the  most  charming  things  In  the 
world,  and  some  of  the  most  humorous :  but  we 
apply  them  as  phrases  rather  than  as  maxims,  and 
remember  them  rather  for  their  pointed  felicity  of 
expression  and  fanciful  application,  than  for  their 
general  truth  and  depth  of  meaning.  I  wIU  give  a 
few  instances : — 

I  was  never  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoias'  time — that 
I  was  an  Irish  rat — which  I  can  hardly  remember.* 

Good,  my  complexion !  Dost  thou  think,  though  I  am 
caparisoned  like  a  man,  that  I  have  a  doublet  and  hoM 
In  my  disposition? 

We  dwell  here  in  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  like  firinge 
apon  a  petticoat. 

•  In  Shakspeare's  tlma,  there  were  people  in  Ireland,  (there 
nay  be  so  still,  for  anght  I  kno%T,)  who  undertook  to  charm  rata 
|o  death,  by  chanting  certain  rerses  which  acted  aa  a  soeli. 
**  Rhyme  them  to  death,  as  they  do  rats  in  Ireland,"  ia  a  Una 
b  one  of  Ben  Jonson's  comedies  this  wiU  explain  EMaliod'i 
Mmorotis  allndon. 


116  CHAiiACTERS    OF    INTE1.LECT. 

Love  is  merely  a  madness;  and,  I  tell  yon,  deserrM  M 
well  a  darl£  house  and  a  whip  us  madmen  do ;  ana  tht 
reason  why  they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured  is,  that 
the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary  that  the  whippers  are  in  leva 
too. 

A  traveller !  By  my  faith  you  have  great  reason  to  h* 
•ad.  I  fear  you  have  sold  your  own  lands  to  see  otb«f 
men's ;  then  to  have  seen  much  and  to  have  nothing,  is  to 
lny-9  rich  eyes  and  poor  hands. 

Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller.  Look  you  lisp,  ana 
wear  strange  suits;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own 
eountry;  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity,  and  almoet 
ohide  God  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are;  or 
I  will  scarce  think  you  have  swam  in  a  gondola. 

Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love !  He  that  will  dirida 
a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a  part  of 
the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  the  affairs  of  love,  it 
may  be  said  of  him  that  Cupid  hath  clapp'd  him  o'  tha 
ihoulder,  but  I  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms  have 
Mten  them — but  not  for  love. 

T  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man's  apparel, 
and  to  cry  like  a  woman ;  but  I  must  comfort  the  weaker 
vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show  itself  coora- 
geons  to  petticoat. 

Boealind  has  not  the  Impressive  eloquence  of 
Portia,  nor  the  sweet  wisdom  of  Isabella.  Hex 
bngest  speeches  are  not  her  best ;  nor  is  her  taun& 
mg  address  to  Phebe,  beautiful  and  celebrated  m 


ROSALIND.  117 

t  is,  equal  to  Phebe's  own  descriptiju  of  her.  The 
latter,  indeed,  is  more  in  earnest.* 

Celia  IS  moi-e  quiet  and  retired  :  but  she  rather 
fields  to  Rosalind,  than  is  eclipsed  by  her.  She  la 
as  full  of  sweetness,  kindness,  and  intelligence, 
quite  as  susceptible,  and  almost  as  witty,  though 
ihe  makes  less  display  of  wit.  She  is  described  as 
less  fair  and  less  gifted ;  yet  the  attempt  to  excite 
in  her  mind  a  jealousy  of  her  lovelier  friend,  by 
placing  them  in  comparison — 

Thou  art  a  fool ;  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ; 

And  thoa  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more  virtnous, 

When  she  is  gone — 

fails  to  awaken  in  the  generous  heart  of  Celia  any- 
other  feeling  than  an  increased  tenderness  and 
sympathy  for  her  cousin.  To  Celia,  Shakspeare 
has  given  some  of  the  most  striking  and  animated 
parts  of  the  dialogue ;  and  in  particular,  that  ex- 
quisite description  of  the  friendship  between  her 
and  Rosalind — 

If  she  be  a  traitor, 
Why,  so  am  I ;  we  have  still  slept  together. 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learned,  played,  eat  together, 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  SAvans, 
Still  we  were  coupled  and  inseparable. 

•  Rouseefka  could  describe  Buch  a  character  as  RosaliadI,  bul 
biled  to  represent  it  consistently.  "  N'est-ce  pas  de  ton  eoeor 
|ue  viennent  les  graces  de  ton  eujouement?  Tea  railleries  sent 
4e8  signes  d'int^r&t  plas  touchants  que  les  complir^nts  d'un 
kutie.  Tu  caresses  quand  tu  fol&tres.  Tu  ris,  mais  ton  rira 
V^nitre  I'Sone ;  tu  ris,  maia  tu  fais  pleurer  de  tendresse  et  je  ti 
loto  presque  tonjoors  s^iivuse  avec  les  indifferent*  '*    H^'i—- 


118  CHARACTERS    OP    INTKLL1CT. 

The  feeling  of  interest  and  admiration  thus  ex- 
tited  for  Celia  at  the  first,  follows  her  through  the 
whole  play.  We  listen  to  her  as  to  one  who  han 
made  herself  worthy  of  our  love ;  and  her  silence 
expresses  more  than  eloquence. 

Phebe  is  quite  an  Arcadian  coquette ;  she  u  a 
piece  of  pastoral  poetry.  Audrey  is  only  nistic. 
A  very  amusing  efl'ect  is  produced  by  the  conlraot 
between  the  frank  and  free  bearing  of  the  two 
princesses  in  disguise,  and  the  scornful  airs  of  the 
real  Shepherdess.  In  the  speeches  of  Phebe,  and 
in  the  dialogue  between  her  and  Sylvius,  Shak- 
speare  has  anticipated  all  the  beauties  of  the  Italian 
pastoral,  and  surpassed  Tasso  and  Guarini.  We 
find  two  among  the  most  poetical  passages  of  the 
play  appropriated  to  Phebe ;  the  taunting  speech 
to  Sylvius,  and  the  description  of  Rosalind  in  hei 
page's  costume ; — which  last  is  finer  than  the  p<H> 
trait  of  Bathyllua  in  Anacreon. 


CHARACTERS    OF   PASSION   AND 
IMAGINATION. 


JULIET. 

O  Love  1  thou  teacher  ' — O  Grief!  thou  tamet 
—and  Time,  thou  healer  ol  human  hearts  ! — bring 
hither  all  your  deep  and  serious  revelations  I — And 
ye  too,  rich  fancies  of  unbruised,  unbowed  youth — 
ye  visions  of  long  perished  hopes — shadows  of  un- 
born joys — gay  colorings  of  the  dawn  of  existence  1 
whatever  memory  hath  treasured  up  of  bright  and 
beautiful  in  nature  or  in  art ;  all  soft  and  delicate 
images — all  lovely  forms — divinest  voices  and  en- 
trancing melodies — gleams  of  simnier  skies  and 
fairer  climes, — Italian  moonlights  and  airs  that 
•*  breathe  of  the  sweet  south," — now,  if  it  be  pos- 
■ible,  revive  to  my  imagination — live  once  more  to 
my  heart  I  Come,  thronging  around  me,  all  inspi* 
rations  that  wait  on  passion,  on  power,  on  beauty ; 
give  me  to  tread,  not  bold,  and  yet  unblamed, 
within  the  inmost  sanctuary  of  Shasspeare's  genius, 
in  Juliet's  moonlight  bower,  and  Miranda's  en* 
thanted  isle ! 

•  «  «  «  • 


120  CHARACTKR8   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

It  is  not  without  emotion,  that  I  attempt  to  touch 
on  the  character  of  Juliet.  Such  beautiful  things 
have  already  been  said  of  her — only  to  be  exceeded 
in  beauty  by  the  subject  that  inspired  them  ! — it  ia 
.mpossible  to  say  any  thing  better ;  but  it  is  possible 
to  say  something  more.  Such  in  fact  is  the  sim- 
plicity, the  truth,  and  the  loveliness  of  Juliefi 
chiracter,  that  we  are  not  at  first  aware  of  Its  com* 
plexity,  its  depth,  and  Its  variety.  There  is  in  it 
an  intensity  of  passion,  a  singleness  of  purpose,  an 
entlreness,  a  completeness  of  effect,  which  we  feei 
w  a  whole ;  and  to  attempt  to  analyze  the  impres- 
sion thus  conveyed  at  once  to  soul  and  sense,  is  as 
if  while  hanging  over  a  half-blown  rose,  and  revel- 
ling In  Its  intoxicating  perfume,  we  should  pull  it 
asunder,  leaflet  by  leaflet,  the  better  to  display  its 
bloom  and  fragrance.  Yet  how  otherwise  should 
we  disclose  the  wonders  of  Its  formation,  or  do 
justice  to  the  skill  of  the  divine  hand  that  hath 
thus  fashioned  it  in  its  beauty  ? 

Love,  as  a  passion,  forms  the  groundwork  of  the 
drama.  Now,  admitting  the  axiom  of  Rochefou- 
cauld, that  there  Is  but  one  love,  though  a  thousand 
different  •'opies,  yet  the  true  sentiment  itself  has  as 
many  different  aspects  as  the  human  soul  of  which 
it  forms  a  part  It  is  not  only  modified  by  the 
individual  character  and  temperament,  but  It  is 
under  the  Influence  of  climate  and  circumstance 
The  love  that  is  calm  In  one  moment,  shall  show 
Itself  vehement  and  tumultuous  at  another.  Tb« 
/>▼«  that  is  wild  and  passionate  in  the  south,  is  de«f 


JULIET.  181 

»ft(l  contemplative  in  the  north  ;  as  tie  Spanish  or 
Roman  girl  perhaps  poisons  a  rival,  or  stabs  herself 
for  the  sake  of  a  living  lover,  and  the  German  oi 
Russian  girl  pines  into  the  grave  for  love  of  the 
false,  the  absent,  or  the  dead.  Love  is  ardent  ot 
deep,  bold  or  timid,  jealous  or  confiding,  impatient 
or  humble,  hopeful  or  desponding — and  yet  there 
are  not  many  loves,  but  one  love. 

All  Shakspeare's  women,  being  essentially 
women,  either  love  or  have  loved,  or  are  capable  of 
loving ;  but  Juliet  is  love  itself.  The  passion  is 
her  state  of  being,  and  out  of  it  she  has  no  exist- 
ence. It  is  the  soul  within  her  soul;  the  pulse 
within  her  heart;  the  life-blood  along  her  veins, 
"  blending  with  every  atom  of  her  frame."  The 
love  that  is  so  chaste  and  dignified  in  Portia — so 
airy-delicate  and  fearless  in  Miranda — so  sweetly 
confiding  in  Perdita — so  playfully  fond  in  Rosalind 
— so  constant  in  Imogen — so  devoted  in  Desde- 
mona — so  fervent  in  Helen — so  tender  in  Viola, — 
is  each  and  all  of  these  in  Juliet.  All  these  remind 
us  of  her ;  but  she  reminds  us  of  nothing  but  her 
own  sweet  self;  or  if  she  does,  it  is  of  the  Gismunda, 
or  the  Lisetta,  or  the  Fiammetta  of  Boccaccio,  to 
whom  she  is  allied,  not  in  the  character  or  circum- 
stances, but  in  the  truly  Italian  spirit,  the  glowing, 
national  complexion  of  the  portrait.* 

*  Lord  Byron  remarlced  of  the  Italian  women,  (and  he  eonU 
■peak  avee  eonnaissance  de  /ait,)  that  they  are  the  only  women 
to  the  world  capable  of  hnpressiona,  at  once  very  sndden  and 
«W7  durable  ■  which,  he  adds,  is  to  be  found  in  no  other  natioik 


122  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

There  was  an  Italian  painter  who  said  that  tha 
lecret  of  all  effect  in  color  consisted  in  white  upon 
black,  and  black  upon  white.  How  perfectly  did 
Shakspeare  understand  this  secret  of  effect !  and 
how  beautifully  he  has  exemplified  it  in  Juliet  ? 

So  shows  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows, 
As  yonder  lady  o'er  her  fellows  shows ! 

Thus  she  and  her  lover  are  in  contrast  with  all 
around  them.  They  are  all  love,  surrounded  with 
all  hate  ;  all  harmony,  surrounded  with  all  discord : 
all  pure  nature,  in  the  midst  of  polished  and  artifi* 
cial  life.  Juliet,  like  Portia,  is  the  foster  child  of 
opulence  and  splendor ;  she  dwells  in  a  fair  city — 
she  has  been  nurtured  in  a  palace — she  clasps  her 
robe  with  jewels — she  braids  her  hair  with  rainbow- 
tinted  pearls ;  but  in  herself  she  has  no  more  con- 
nection with  the  trappings  around  her,  than  the 
lovely  exotic,  transplanted  from  some  Eden-like 
climate,  has  with  the  carved  and  gilded  conser- 
vator}- which  has  reared  and  sheltered  its  luxuriant 
beauty. 

But  in  this  vivid  impression  of  contrast,  there  ii 
nothing  abrupt  or  harsh.     A  tissue  of  beautifol 

Mr.  Hoore  obseires  afterwards,  how  completely  an  Itallao 
woman,  either  from  nature  or  her  social  position,  is  led  to  inrert 
the  nsnal  conree  of  firaUty  among  oorselves,  and,  weak  in  resist* 
teg  the  first  impulses  of  passion,  to  reserve  the  whole  strengtk 
y(  her  character  for  a  display  of  constancy  and  devotedneat 
afterwards. — Both  these  traits  of  national  character  are  exempli 
led  In  JuUet— Afoors's  Life  o/Bifron,  Tol.  ii.  pp.  aOS,  838.    4t* 


JULIET.  1 28 

poetry  weav«d  together  the  principal  figures,  a«icl 
the  subordinate  personages.  The  consistent  tnjth 
of  the  costume,  and  the  exquisite  gradations  of  re- 
lief with  which  the  most  opposite  hues  are  approx- 
imated, blend  all  into  harmony.  Romeo  and  Juliet 
are  not  poetical  beings  placed  on  a  prosaic  back- 
ground; nor  are  they,  like  Thekla  and  Max  in 
the  Wallenstein,  two  angels  of  light  amid  the  dark- 
est and  harshest,  the  most  debased  and  revolting 
aspecis  of  humanity  ;  but  every  circumstance,  and 
every  personage,  and  every  shade  of  character  in 
each,  tends  to  the  development  of  the  sentiment 
which  is  the  subject  of  the  drama.  The  poetry, 
too,  the  richest  that  can  possibly  be  conceived,  is 
interfused  through  all  the  characters ;  the  splendid 
imagery  lavished  upon  all  with  the  careless  prodi- 
gality of  genius,  and  the  whole  is  lighted  up  into 
such  a  sunny  brilliance  of  effect,  as  though  Shak- 
speare  had  really  transported  himself  into  Italy,  and 
had  drunk  to  intoxication  of  her  genial  atmos- 
phere. How  truly  it  has  been  said,  that  "  although 
Romeo  and  Juliet  are  in  love,  they  are  not  love- 
sick 1 "  What  a  false  idea  would  anything  of  the 
mere  whining  amoroso,  give  us  of  Romeo,  such  aa 
he  really  is  in  Shakspeare — the  noble,  gallant, 
ardent,  brave,  and  witty  1  And  Juliet — with  even 
less  truth  could  the  phrase  or  idea  apply  to  her  I 
The  picture  in  "  Twelfth  Night "  of  the  wan  girl 
dying  of  love,  "  who  pined  in  thought,  and  mth  a 
^jrecn  and  yellow  melancholy,"  would  never  surely 
KCTir  to  us,  when  thinking  on  the  enamored  and 


124  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

impassioned  Juliet,  in  whose  bosom  love  keeps  a 
fiery  vigil,  kindling  tenderness  into  enthusiasm, 
enthusiasm  into  passion,  passion  into  heroism !  No, 
the  whole  sentiment  of  the  play  is  of  a  far  different 
cast.  It  is  flushed  with  the  genial  spirit  of  the  south 
it  tastes  of  youth,  and  of  the  essence  of  youth ;  of 
life,  and  of  the  very  sap  of  life.*  We  have  indeed 
the  struggle  of  love  against  evil  destinies,  and  a 
thorny  world ;  the  pain,  the  grief,  the  anguish,  the 
terror,  the  despair;  the  aching  adieu;  the  pang 
unutterable  of  parted  affection;  and  rapture,  truth, 
and  tenderness  trampled  into  an  early  grave :  but 
still  an  Elysian  grace  lingers  round  the  whole,  and 
the  blue  sky  of  Italy  bends  over  all ! 

In  the  delineation  of  that  sentiment  which  forma 
the  groundwork  of  the  drama,  nothing  in  fact  can 
equal  the  power  of  the  picture,  but  its  inexpressible 
sweetness  and  its  perfect  grace  :  the  passion  which 
has  taken  possession  of  Juliet's  whole  soul,  has  the 
force,  the  rapidity,  the  resistless  violence  of  the  tor- 
rent :  but  she  is  herself  as  "  moving  delicate,"  ai 
fair,  as  soft,  as  flexible  as  the  willow  that  bends 
over  it,  whose  light  leaves  tremble  even  with  the 
motion  of  the  current  which  hurries  beneath  them. 
But  at  the  same  time  that  the  pervading  sentiment 
b  never  lost  sight  of,  and  is  one  and  the  same 
throughout,  the  individual  part  of  the  character  in 
til  its  variety  is  developed,  and  marked  with  th« 
lucest  discrimination.  For  instance, — the  sim2)licity 

*  La  live  dt  la  vie,  is  an  expression  OMd  somewhere  by  Vm 
tUM  de  StML 


12< 


of  Juliet  is  very  different  from  the  feinijjlicity  of 
Miranda :  hev  innocence  is  not  the  innocence  of  a 
desert  island.  The  energy  she  displays  does  not 
once  remind  us  of  the  moral  grandeur  of  Isabel,  or 
the  intellectual  power  of  Portia ; — it  is  founded  in 
the  strength  of  passion,  not  in  the  strength  of  char- 
acter : — it  is  accidental  rather  than  inherent,  rising 
with  the  tide  of  feeling  or  temper,  and  witli  it  sul>- 
siding.  Her  romance  is  not  the  pastoral  i  omance 
of  Perdita,  nor  the  fanciful  romance  of  Viola ;  it  ia 
the  romance  of  a  tender  heart  and  a  poetical  imag- 
ination. Her  inexperience  is  not  ignorance :  she 
has  heard  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  falsehood, 
though  she  can  scarcely  conceive  it.  Her  mother 
and  her  nurse  have  perhaps  warned  her  against 
flattering  vows  and  man's  inconstancy ;  or  she  has 
even 

Turned  the  tale  by  Ariosto  told, 

Of  &ir  Olympia,  loved  and  left,  of  old ! 

Hence  that  bashful  doubt,  dispelled  almost  as  soon 
as  felt — 

Ah,  gentle  Romeo ! 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faitliullT. 

That  conscious  shrinking  from  her  own  confe» 
«on — 

Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form;  fein,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke ! 

^^^  ingenuous  simplicity  of  her  avowal-- 


126         c^akacters  of  passion,  etc. 

Or  i*"  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 

I'll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 

So  thou  wilt  woo — but  else,  not  for  the  world! 

In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond, 

Ani  therefore  thou  may'st  think  my  'harior  ligfat, 

But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 

Than  those  who  have  more  cunning  to  be  strongs. 

And  the  proud  yet  timid  delicacy,  with  which  sLl 
tlirows  herself  for  forbearance  and  pardon  upon 
the  tenderness  of  bim  she  loves,  even  for  the  Iov« 
she  bears  him — 

Therefore  pardon  me, 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 

In  the  alternative,  which  she  afterwards  placet 
before  her  lover  with  such  a  charming  mixture  of 
conscious  delicacy  and  girlish  simplicity,  there  w 
that  jealousy  of  female  honor  which  precept  and 
education  have  infused  into  her  mind,  without  on# 
real  doubt  of  his  truth,  or  the  slightest  hesitation  i> 
her  self-abandonment :  for  she  does  not  even  wait 
to  hear  his  asseverations ; — 

Bat  if  then  meanest  not  well,  I  do  beseech  the* 
To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  n>^  to  niy  gri8& 

BOHBO. 

So  tliriTa  my  soul 

JUUBT. 

A  thoosand  times,  good  night! 


12J 


But  all  these  flutterings  betwocn  native  impulses 
and  maiden  fears  become  gi'aduaily  absorbed,  swept 
away,  lost,  and  swallowed  up  m  tiie  denth  and  en- 
kbusiasm  of  confiding  love. 

My  bounty  h  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
ily  love  as  deep ;  the  more  I  give  to  you 
The  more  I  have — for  both  are  infinite! 

"What  a  picture  of  the  young  heart,  that  sees  no 
bound  to  its  hopes,  no  end  to  its  affections  I  For 
"  what  was  to  hinder  the  thrilling  tide  of  pleasure 
which  had  just  gushed  from  her  heart,  from  f  ow- 
ing on  without  stint  or  measure,  but  experience, 
which  she  was  yet  without  ?  What  was  to  abate 
the  transport  of  the  first  sweet  sense  of  pleeisure 
which  her  heart  had  just  tasted,  but  indifference, 
to  which  she  was  yet  a  stranger  ?  What  was  tnere 
to  check  the  ardor  of  hope,  of  faith,  of  constancy, 
just  rising  in  her  breast,  but  disappointment,  which 
she  had  never  yet  felt  ?  "  * 

Lord  Byron's  Haidee  is  a  copy  of  Juliet  in  the 
Oriental  costume,  but  the  development  is  epic,  no* 
dramatic.f 

•  Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays. 

1 1  must  allude,  but  with  reluctance,  to  another  character, 
which  I  hare  heard  likened  to  Juliet,  and  often  quoted  as  th* 
heroine  par  excellence  of  amatory  fiction — I  mean  the  Julie  of 
Ronsseau's  Nouyelle  HeloYse ;  I  pro'*st  against  her  altogether. 
Ae  a  cieation  of  fancy  the  purtrut  is  a  compound  of  the  most 
froM  and  glaring  inconsistencies ;  as  false  and  impossible  to  tiM 
reflecting  and  philosophical  mind,  as  the  £ibled  Syrens,  Ham*- 
dryads  and  Centaurs  to  the  eye  of  the  aiatomist.    As  a  wonwi, 


128  CHAAACTfiRS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

I  remember  no  dramatic  character,  conveying 
the  same  impression  of  singleness  of  purpose,  and 
devotion  of  heart  and  soul,  except  the  Thekla  of 
Schiller's  Wallenstein ;  she  is  the  Grerman  Juliet 
far  unequal,  indeed,  but  conceived,  nevertheless,  in 
a  kindred  spirit  I  know  not  if  critics  have  ever 
compared  them,  or  whether  Schiller  is  supposed  to 
have  had  the  English,  or  rather  the  Italian,  Juliet 
in  his  fancy  when  he  portrayed  Thekla ;  but  there 
are  some  striking  points  of  coincidence,  while  the 
national  distinction  in  the  character  of  the  passion 
leaves  to  Thekla  a  strong  cast  of  ori^nality.*    The 

Julie  'belongs  neither  to  nature  nor  to  artificial  Rociety ;  and  if 
the  pages  of  melting  and  dazzling  eloquence  in  which  Roncaeaa 
has  garnished  out  his  idol  did  not  hlind  and  intoxicate  ojb,  as  the 
incense  and  the  garlands  did  tlie  votaries  of  Isis,  we  should  ba 
disgusted.  Rousseau,  having  composed  his  Julie  of  the  com- 
monest clay  of  the  earth,  does  not  animate  her  with  Are  from 
heaven,  but  breathes  his  own  spirit  into  her,  and  then  calls  the 
"  impetticoated  "  paradox  a  woman.  He  makes  her  a  peg  on 
which  to  hang  his  own  visions  and  sentiments — and  what  senti- 
ments !  but  that  I  fear  to  soil  my  pages,  I  would  piclc  out  a  ftw 
if  them,  and  show  the  difference  between  this  strange  combina- 
tion of  youth  and  innocence,  philoeophy  and  pedantry,  Bophint- 
Ical  prudery,  and  detestable  grossiireU,  and  our  own  Juliet. 
Ko!  if  we  seek  a  French  Juliet,  we  must  go  fer — &r  back  to  the 
Teal  n^loYse,  to  her  eloquence,  her  sensibility,  her  fervor  of  pa«- 
l^lon,  her  devotedness  of  truth.  She,  4t  least,  married  the  man 
■he  loved,  and  loved  the  man  she  mairied,  and  more  than  died 
for  liim;  but  enough  of  both. 
*  B.  Constant  describes  her  beautiftilly-  >"  Sa  roix  si  donee  au 
tiavers  le  bruit  des  armes,  sa  forme  delicate  an  milieu  de  eet 
hommes  tons  converts  de  fer,  la  pnret^  de  son  iLme  oppooAe 
ienrs  calculs  avides,  eon  calme  celeste  qui  contraste  avee  lenrf 
agitations,  r'>mpli8sent  le  speutateur  d'une  Amotion  constante  <r 
U^lancolique,  'elle  que  ne  la  &it  resaentir  nolle  trag6dia  ord( 
bah«." 


jrULiET.  12S 

Princess  Thekla  is,  like  Juliet,  the  heiress  of  rank 
and  opulence ;  her  first  introduction  to  us,  in  her 
full  dress  and  diamonds,  does  not  impair  the  im- 
pression of  her  softnsss  and  simplicity.  We  do 
not  think  of  them,  nor  do  we  sympathize  with  the 
complaint  of  her  lover, — 

The  dazzle  of  the  jewels  which  played  round  you 
Hid  the  beloved  from  me. 

We  almost  feel  the  reply  of  Thekla  before  she 
otters  it, — 

Then  you  saw  me 
Not  with  your  heart,  but  with  your  eyes  I 

'The  timidity  of  Thekla  in  her  first  scene,  her 
trembling  silence  in  the  commencement,  and  the 
few  words  she  addresses  to  her  mother,  remind  ua  ot 
the  unobtrusive  simplicity  of  Juliet's  first  appear- 
ance; but  the  impression  is  different;  the  one  is 
the  shrinking  violet,  the  other  the  unexpanded 
rose-bud.  Thekla  and  Max  Piccolomini  are,  like 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  divided  by  the  hatred  of  their 
Others.  The  death  of  Max,  and  the  resolute  des- 
pair of  Thtkla,  are  also  points  of  resemblance ;  and 
Thekla's  complete  devotion,  her  frank  yet  dignified 
abandonment  of  all  disguise,  and  her  apology  for 
her  own  unreserve,  are  quite  in  Juliet's  style, — 

I  ought  to  be  less  open,  ought  to  hide 
rfy  heart  more  from  thee — so  decorum  dictates: 
But  where  in  tnis  placfe  wouldst  thcxi  seek  for  troth 
If  in  my  mouth  thou  Cldst  not  find  it  ?    * 
9 


ISO  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

The  same  confidence,  innocence,  and  fervor  of 
affection,  distinguish  both  heroines ;  but  the  lov« 
of  Juliet  is  more  vehement,  the  love  of  Thekla  if 
more  calm,  and  reposes  more  on  itself;  the  love  of 
Juliet  gives  us  the  idea  of  infinitude,  and  that  of 
Thekla  of  eternity :  the  love  of  Juliet  flows  on  with 
an  increasing  tide,  like  the  river  pouring  to  the 
ocean ;  and  the  love  of  Thekla  stands  unalterable, 
and  enduring  as  the  rock.  In  the  heart  of  Thekla 
love  shelters  as  in  a  home ;  but  in  the  heart  of 
Juliet  he  reigns  a  crowned  king, — "  he  rides  on  its 
pants  triumphant  I "  As  women,  they  would  divide 
the  loves  and  suffrages  of  mankind,  but  not  aa 
dramatic  characters :  the  moment  we  come  to  look 
nearer,  we  acknowledge  that  it  is  indeed  "  rash- 
ness and  ignorance  to  compare  SchiUer  with  Shak- 
speare."*  Thekla  is  a  fine  conception  in  the 
Grerman  spirit,  but  Juliet  is  a  lovely  and  palpable 
creation.  The  coloring  in  which  Schiller  has  ar- 
rayed his  Thekla  is  pale,  sombre,  vague,  compared 
with  the  strong  individual  marking,  the  rich  glow 
of  life  and  reality,  which  distinguish  Juliet  One 
contrast  in  particular  has  always  struck  me ;  the 
two  beautiful  speeches  in  the  first  interview  be- 
tween Max  and  Thekla,  that  in  which  she  describel 
her  father's  astrological  chamber,  and  that  in  which 
he  rsplies  with  reflections  on  the  influence  of  the 
■tara,  are  sjud  to  "  form  in  themselves  a  fine  poem. 
They  do  so;  but  never  would  Shakspeare  hAVt 

*     *  Coleridge— prallkce  to  Wallenatcia. 


JULIET.  181 

pla^«d  such  extraneous  description  and  reflection 
a  the  mouths  of  his  lovers.  Romeo  and  Juliet 
tpeak  of  themselves  only;  they  see  only  themselves 
in  the  universe,  all  things  else  are  as  an  idle  mat- 
ter. Not  a  word  they  utter,  though  every  word  is 
poetry — ^not  a  sentiment  or  description,  though 
dressed  in  the  most  luxuriant  imagery,  but  has  a 
direct  relation  to  themselves,  or  to  the  situation  in 
which  they  are  placed,  and  the  feehngs  that  en- 
gross them :  and  besides,  it  may  be  remarked  dF 
Thekla,  and  generally  of  all  tragedy  heroines  in 
love,  that,  however  beautifully  and  distinctly  char- 
acterized, we  see  the  passion  only  under  one  or 
two  aspects  at  most,  or  in  conflict  with  some  one 
circumstance  or  contending  duty  or  feeling.  In 
Juliet  alone  we  find  it  exhibited  under  every 
variety  of  aspect,  and  every  gradation  of  feeling 
it  could  possibly  assume  in  a  delicate  female 
heart :  as  we  see  the  rose,  when  passed  through 
the  colors  of  the  prism,  catch  and  reflect  every 
tint  of  the  divided  ray,  and  still  it  is  the  same 
Bweet  rose. 

I  have  already  remarked  the  quiet  manner  in 
which  Juliet  steals  upon  us  in  her  first  scene,  as 
the  serene,  graceful  girl,  her  feelings  as  yet  un- 
fcwakened,  and  her  energies  all  unknown  to  hep« 
lelf,  and  unsuspected  by  others.  Her  silence  and 
Wa"  filial  deference  are  charming :  — 

I'D  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move ; 
Bnt  no  more  deep  wiu  1  endart  mine  eye. 
Than  your  consent  »\ah  give  it  strength  to  fly 


182  CHARACTERS   OF   PA83ION,   ETC. 

Mu,',h  in  the  same  unconscious  way  we  are  iiD> 
pressed  wth  an  idea  of  her  excellinp;  lovelineaB:-- 

Beaaty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear  I 

and  which  could  make  the  dark  vault  of  death  " 
feasting  presence  full  of  light."  Without  any 
elaborate  description,  we  behold  Juliet,  as  she  ii 
reflected  iu  the  heart  of  her  lover,  like  a  single 
bright  star  mirrored  in  the  bosom  of  a  deep,  trans- 
parent well.  The  rapture  with  which  he  dwella 
on  the  "  white  wonder  of  her  hand ; "  on  her  lips. 

That  even  in  pure  and  vestal  modesty 

Still  blush,  as  thinking  their  own  kisses  sin. 
And  then  her  eyes,  "  two  of  the  fairest  stars  in 
all  the  heavens  1 "     In   his  exclamation  in  the 
sepulchre, 

Ah,  dear  Juliet,  why  art  thou  yet  so  fair  I 
there  is  life  and  death,  beauty  and  horror,  rapture 
and  anguish  combined.     The  Friar's  description  ot 
her  approach, 

0,  so  light  a  step 

Will  ne'er  wear  out  the  everlasting  flint  I 

and  then  her  father's  similitude. 

Death  lies  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field; — 
all  these  mingle  into  a  beautiful  picture  of  youth- 
(al,  tury,  delicate  grace,  feminine  sweetness,  and 
patrician  elegance. 

And  our  impresaon  of  Juliet's  loveliness  and 
lensibility  is  enhanced,  when  we  find  it  overcon> 
dg  in  the  bosom  of  Romeo  a  previous  lore  for 


JVLIST.  1S9 

Inotber  His  visionary  passion  for  the  cold,  inao- 
ressible  Rosaline,  forms  but  the  prologue,  the 
threshold,  to  the  true — the  real  sentiment  ■which 
Tcceeds  to  it.  This  incident,  which  is  found  in 
the  original  story,  has  been  retained  by  Shakspeare 
with  equal  feeling  and  judgment;  and  far  from 
being  a  fault  in  taste  and  sentiment,  far  from  pre- 
judicing us  against  Romeo,  by  casting  on  him,  at 
the  outset  of  the  piece,  the  stigma  of  inconstancy, 
it  becomes,  if  properly  considered,  a  beauty  in  the 
drama,  and  adds  a  fresh  stroke  of  truth  to  the  por- 
trait of  the  lover.  Why,  after  all,  should  we  be 
offended  at  what  does  not  offend  Juliet  herself  ? 
for  in  the  original  story  we  find  that  her  attention 
is  first  attracted  towards  Romeo,  by  seeing  him 
"  fancy  sick  and  pale  of  cheer,"  for  love  of  a  cold 
beauty.  We  must  remember  tliat  in  those  times 
every  young  cavalier  of  any  distinction  devoted 
himself,  at  his  first  entrance  into  the  world,  to  the 
service  of  some  fair  lady,  who  was  selected  to  be 
his  fancy's  queen ;  and  the  more  rigorous  the 
beauty,  and  the  more  hopeless  the  love,  the  more 
honorable  the  slavery.  To  go  about  "metamor* 
phosed  by  a  mistress,"  as  Speed  hmnorously  ex- 
presses it,* — to  maintain  her  supremacy  in  chamu 
at  the  sword's  point ;  to  sigh ;  to  walk  with  folded 
arms ;  to  be  negligent  and  melancholy,  and  to  show 
a  careless  desolation,  was  the  fashion  of  the  day. 
The  Surreys,  the  Sydneys,  the  Bayards,  the  Her- 
berts cf  the  time — all  those  who  were  the  mirrori 

*  In  the  "  rwo  G«nclemen  of  Terona." 


tS4  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

"  m  which  the  noble  youth  did  dress  thenuelTes, 
were  of  this  fantastic  school  of  gallantry — the  last 
remains  of  the  age  of  chivalry ;  and  it  was  especiallj 
prevalent  in  Italy.  Shakspeare  has  ridiculed  't  in 
many  places  with  exquisite  humor ;  but  he  wished 
to  show  us  that  it  has  its  serious  as  well  as  its  comic 
aspect.  Romeo,  then,  is  introduced  to  us  with 
perfect  truth  of  costume,  as  the  thrall  of  a  dream- 
ing, fanciful  passion  for  the  scornful  Rosaline,  who 
had  forsworn  to  love;  and  on  her  charms  and 
coldness,  and  on  the  power  of  love  generally,  he 
descants  to  his  companions  in  pretty  phrases,  quite 
in  the  style  and  taste  of  the  day.* 

Why  then,  0  brawling  love,  0  loving  hate, 
0  any  thing,  of  nothing  first  create  I 
0  heavy  lightness,  serious  vanity. 
Mis-shapen  chaos  of  well-seeming  fonns ! 

Love  is  a  smoke  raised  with  the  fume  of  sighs ; 
Being  purg'd,  a  fire  sparkling  in  lover's  eyes; 
Being  vex'd,  a  sea  nourish'd  with  lover's  tears. 

•  Tliere  is  an  allusion  to  this  court  language  of  loTe  In  "AD 
W*d  that  Ends  Well,"  where  Helena  says, — 

.   There  shall  your  master  have  a  thousand  U  nt 
A  guide,  a  goddess,  and  a  sovereign; 
A  counsellor,  a  trai^re88,  and  a  dear, 
His  humble  ambition,  proud  humility, 
HU  jarring  concord,  aud  his  discord  dulcut, 
Ills  fiiith,  his  sweet  disaster,  with  a  world 
Of  pretty  fond  adoptious  Christendoms 
That  blinking  Cupid  gossips. — Aoi  I.  ^SoENK  1 
l%e  eourtly  poets  of  Elizabeth's  time,  who  copied  the  [talte* 
■oan»Ua«n  of  the  sixteenth  century,  are  ftill  of  thew  qoatis 
■saaaUs. 


JULIET.  139 

But  when  once  he  has  beheld  Juliet,  and  quaffed 
jBtoxicating  draughts  of  hope  and  love  from  her 
loft  glance,  how  all  these  airy  fancies  fade  before 
the  soul-absorbing  reality  1  The  lambent  fire  that 
played  round  his  heart,  bums  to  that  heart's  very 
tore.  We  no  longer  find  him  adorning  his  lamen- 
tations in  picked  phrases,  or  making  a  confidant  of 
his  gay  companions:  he  is  no  longer  "for  the 
numbers  that  Petrarch  flowed  in ; "  but  all  is  con- 
gecrated,  earnest,  rapturous,  in  the  feeling  and  the 
expression.  Compare,  for  instance,  the  sparkling 
antithetical  passages  just  quoted,  with  one  or  two 
of  his  pjissionate  speeches  to  or  of  Juliet : — 

Heaven  is  here, 
Where  Juliet  lives !  &c. 

Ah  Juliet !  if  the  measure  of  thy  joy 
Be  heaped  like  mine,  and  that  thy  skill  be  mora 
To  blazon  it,  then  sweeten  with  thy  breath 
This  neighbour  air,  and  let  rich  music's  tongue 
Unfold  the  Imagin'd  happiness,  that  both 
Beceive  in  either  by  this  dear  encounter. 

Come  what  sorrow  may. 

It  cannot  countervail  the  exchanga  of  joy 

That  one  short  minute  gives  me  in  her  sight. 

How  different !  and  how  finely  the  distmction  it 
Irawn  I  His  first  passion  is  indulged  as  a  waking 
dream,  a  reverie  of  the  fancy ;  it  is  depressing,  in- 
dolent, fantastic ;  his  second  elevates  him  to  the 
dunl  heaven,  or  hurries  him  to  despair,    ix  rushei 


136  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

to  it8  object  through  all  impediments,  defies  aB 
dangers,  and  seeks  at  last  a  triumphant  grave,  ic 
the  arms  of  her  he  so  loved.  Thus  Romeo's  pre* 
vious  attachment  to  Rosaline  is  so  contrived  as  to 
exhibit  to  us  another  variety  in  that  passion,  which 
is  the  subject  of  the  poem,  by  showing  us  the  dis- 
tinction between  the  fancied  and  the  real  sentimenL 
It  adds  a  deeper  effect  to  the  beauty  of  Juliet ;  it 
interests  us  in  the  commencement  for  the  tender 
and  romantic  Romeo ;  and  gives  an  individual  real- 
ity to  his  character,  by  stamping  him  like  an 
historical,  as  well  as  a  dramatic  portrait,  with  the 
very  spirit  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived.* 

It  may  be  remarked  of  Juliet  as  of  Portia,  that 
we  not  only  trace  the  component  qualities  in  each 
as  they  expand  before  us  in  the  course  of  the  ac- 
tion, but  we  seem  to  have  known  them  previously, 
and  mingle  a  consciousness  of  their  past,  with  the 
interest  of  their  present  and  their  future.  Thus, 
in  the  dialogue  between  Juliet  and  her  pares  ts, 
and  in  the  scenes  with  the  Nurse,  we  seem  to  have 
oefore  us  the  whole  of  her  previous  education  and 
habits :  we  see  her,  on  the  one  hand,  kept  in  severe 
subjection  by  her  austere  parents;  and  on  the 
other,  fondled  and  spoiled  by  a  foolish  old  nursfr— 
a  situation  perfectly  accordant  with  the  manners  ol 
the  time.  Then  Lady  Capulet  comes  sweeping  b» 
with  her  train  of  velvet,  her  black  hood,  her  faoi 

*  Sinee  tSia  was  written,  I  have  met  with  Bome  remarks  of 
rimlUr  tendency  in  that  most  interesting  book,  "  The  life  4 
Lrcord  B.  nt^^rald." 


JULIET.  187 

And  licr  rosary — the  very  heaurideal  of  a  proud 
Italian  matron  of  the  fifteenth  century,  whose  oifel 
to  poison  Romeo  in  revenge  for  the  death  of  Ty- 
balt, stamps  her  with  one  very  characteristic  trait 
of  the  age  and  country.  Yet  she  loves  her  daugh- 
ter ;  and  there  is  a  touch  of  remorseful  tendemesi 
in  her  lamentation  over  her,  which  adds  to  our  im- 
pression of  the  timid  softness  of  Juliet,  and  the 
harsh  subjection  in  which  she  has  been  kept : — 

But  one,  poor  one ! — one  poor  and  loving  child, 

But  one  thing  to  rejoice  and  solace  in, 

And  cruel  death  hath  catched  it  from  my  sight! 

Capulet,  as  the  joAaal,  testy  old  man,  the  self 
willed,  violent,  tyrannical  father, — to  whom  his 
daughter  is  but  a  property,  the  appanage  of  his 
house,  and  the  object  of  his  pride, — is  equal  as  a 
portrait :  but  both  must  yield  to  the  Nurse,  who  is 
drawn  with  the  most  wonderful  power  and  discrim- 
ination. In  the  prosaic  homeliness  of  the  outline, 
and  the  magical  illusion  of  the  coloring,  she  reminds 
us  of  some  of  the  marvellous  Dutch  paintings,  from 
which,  with  all  their  coarseness,  we  start  back  as 
from  a  reality.  Her  low  humor,  her  shallow  gar- 
rulity, mixed  with  the  dotage  and  petulance  o^"  ige 
— her  subserviency,  her  secrecy,  and  her  total  -want 
of  elevated  principle,  or  even  common  honesty  • 
are  brought  before  us  like  a  living  and  palpable 
^th. 

Among  these  harsh  and  inferior  spirits  is  Juhel 
placed;  her  haughty  parents,  and    hei    plebeias 


fS8  CHARACTERS  OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

nurse,  not  only  throw  into  beautifol  relief  her  own 
native  softness  and  elegance,  but  are  at  once  tiia 
cause  and  the  excuse  of  her  subsequent  conduct 
She  trembles  before  her  stem  mother  and  he» 
violent  father :  but,  like  a  petted  child,  alternately 
cajoles  and  commands  her  nurse.  It  is  her  ola 
foster-mother  who  is  the  confidante  of  her  love.  It 
is  the  woman  who  cherished  her  infancy,  who  aids 
and  abets  her  in  her  clandestine  marriage.  Do  we 
not  perceive  how  immediately  our  impression  of 
Juliet's  character  would  have  been  loi*ered,  if 
Shakspeare  had  placed  her  iu  connection  with  any 
common-place  dramatic  waiting-woman  ? — even 
with  Portia's  adroit  Nerissa,  or  Desdemona'j 
Emilia?  By  giving  her  the  Nurse  for  her  cor.- 
fidante,  the  sweetness  and  dignity  of  Juliet's  char- 
acter are  preserved  inviolate  to  the  fancy,  even  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  romance  and  wilfulness  of  pa»- 
uon. 

The  natural  result  of  these  extremes  of  snbjeo- 
t.on  and  independence,  is  exhibited  in  the  char- 
acter of  Juliet,  as  it  gradually  opens  upon  us.  We 
behold  it  in  the  mixture  of  self-will  and  timidity,  of 
Btrength  and  weakness,  of  confidence  and  reserve, 
which  are  developed  as  the  action  of  the  play  pro- 
ceeds. We  see  it  in  the  fond  eagerness  of  the  in- 
dulged girl,  for  whose  impatience  the  "nimblest  of 
the  lightning-winged  loves "  had  been  too  slow  « 
messenger ;  in  her  petulance  with  her  nurse ;  14 
those  bursts  of  vehement  feeling,  which  prepare  uf 
for  thu  climax  of  passion  at  the  catastrophe  ,*  in  hey 


ISS 


jnvectives  against  Romeo,  when  she  hears  of  the 
death  of  Tybalt ;  iu  her  indignation  when  the  nursa 
echoes  those  reproaches,  and  the  rising  of  her 
temper  against  unwonted  contradiction  : — 

KURSK. 

Sliame  come  to  Komeo ! 

JUI.IET. 

Blistered  be  thy  tongue, 
For  such  a  wish !  he  was  not  bom  to  shame. 

Then  comes  that  revulsion  of  strong  feeling,  that 
burst  of  magnificent  exultation  in  the  virtue  and 
honor  of  her  lover : — 

Upon  his  brow  Shame  is  ashamed  to  sit, 

For  'tis  a  throne  where  Honor  may  be  crown'd 

Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth  1 

And  this,  by  one  of  those  quick  transitions  of 
feeling  which  belong  to  the  character,  is  immediate- 
ly succeeded  by  a  gush  of  tenderness  and  self- 
teproach — 

Ah,  poor  ray  lord,  what  tons^e  shall  smooth  thy  name, 
When  I,  thy  three-houi~'  wife,  have  mangled  it  ? 

With  the  same  admirable  truth  of  nature,  Juliet 
IS  represented  as  at  first  bewildered  by  the  fearful 
iestiny  that  closes  round  her ;  reverse  is  new  and 
terrible  to  one  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  and 
whose  energies  are  yet  untried. 


40  OHARACTBRS  OF  PASSION,   ETC 

Alack,  alack,  that  heaven  should  practise  stratagem* 
Upon  so  soft  a  subject  as  myselL 

While  a  stay  remains  to  her  amid  the  evils  that 
encompass  her,  she  clings  to  it.  She  appeals  to  hei 
father — to  her  mother — 

Good  father,  I  beseech  70a  on  my  knees, 
Hear  me  with  patience  but  to  speak  one  word! 

*  it  *  *  m 

Ab,  sweet  my  mother,  cast  me  not  away! 
Delay  this  marriage  for  a  month, — a  week ! 

And,  rejected  by  both,  she  throws  herself  npoo 
her  nurse  in  all  the  helplessness  of  anguish,  of  con- 
fiding affection,  of  habitual  dependence — 

0  God!  0  nurse!  how  shall  this  be  prevented? 
Some  comfort,  nurse  I 

The  old  woman,  true  to  her  vocation,  and  fear- 
ful lest  her  share  in  these  events  should  be  dis- 
covered, counsels  her  to  foi^et  Romeo  and  marry 
Paris ;  and  the  moment  which  unveils  to  Jaf'  ?t  the 
weakness  and  baseness  of  her  confidante,  is  the 
moment  which  reveals  her  to  herself.  She  does 
not  break  into  upbraidings;  it  is  n  momeu*^  for 
anger;  it  is  incredulous  amazement,  "mcceeded  Ly 
the  extremity  of  scorn  and  abhorrence,  which  *ake 
possession  of  her  mind.  She  assumes  at  once  and 
asserts  all  her  own  superiority,  and  rises  to  majostj 
'n  the  strength  of  her  despair. 


JULIET  14l 

OtTLIET. 

Speakest  thou  from  thy  heart? 

HUR8E. 

Aye,  and  from  my  soul  too ; — or  elM 
Beshrew  them  both ! 

JTJTJET. 

Amen' 

This  final  severing  of  all  the  old  famibar  ties  of 
ker  childhood — 

Go,  counsellor  I 
Thou  and  my  bosom  henceforth  shall  be  twain! 

and  the  cahn,  concentrated  force  of  her  resolve, 

If  all  else  fail, — ^myself  have  power  to  die; 

have  a  sublime  pathos.  It  appears  to  me  also  an 
admirable  touch  of  nature,  considering  the  master- 
passion  which,  at  this  moment,  rules  in  Juliet's  soul, 
that  she  is  as  much  shocked  by  the  nurse's  dispraise 
of  her  lover,  as  by  her  wicked,  time-serving  ad- 
vice. 

This  scene  is  the  crisis  in  the  character;  and 
henceforth  we  see  Juhet  assume  a  new  aspect.  The 
fond,  impatient,  timid  girl,  puts  on  the  wife  and  the 
woman  :  she  has  learned  heroism  from  suffering, 
smd  subtlety  from  oppression.  It  is  idle  to  criticize 
ter  dissembling  submission  to  her  father  and 
■oother;  a  higher  duty  has  taken  place  of  that 
which  she  owed  to  them ;  a  more  sacred  tie  has 
levered  all  others.    Jler  parent^j  are  pictured  ai 


I4t  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,    ETC. 

they  are,  that  no  feeling  for  them  may  interfei«  u 
the  slightest  degree  with  our  sympathy  for  the 
lovers.  In  the  mind  of  Juliet  there  is  no  struggle 
between  her  filial  and  her  conjugal  duties,  and 
there  ought  to  be  none.  The  Friar,  her  spiritual 
director,  dismisses  her  with  these  inetructiona : — 

Go  home,— be  merry,— give  consent 
To  marry  Paris; 

and  she  obeys  him.  Death  and  suffering  in  every 
horrid  form  she  is  ready  to  brave,  without  fear  or 
doubt,  "  to  live  an  unstained  wife : "  and  the  artifice 
to  which  she  has  recourse,  which  she  is  even  in- 
structed to  use,  in  no  respect  impairs  the  beauty  of 
the  character;  we  regard  it  with  pain  and  pity; 
but  excuse  it,  as  the  natural  and  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  the  situation  in  which  she  is  placed.  Nor 
should  we  forget,  that  the  dissimulation,  as  well  ae 
the  courage  of  Juliet,  though  they  spring  from  pas* 
rion,  are  justified  by  principle : — 

My  husband  is  on  earth,  my  faith  in  heaven; 
How  shall  my  faith  return  again  to  earth. 
Unless  that  husband  send  it  me  from  heaven  ? 

In  her  successive  appeals  to  her  father,  her 
mother,  her  nurse,  and  the  Friar,  she  seeks  those 
remedies  which  would  first  suggest  themselves  to  t 
gentle  and  virtuous  nature,  and  grasps  her  da^er 
only  as  the  last  resource  against  dishonor  an^ 
violated  ftuth ; — 


jruET.  I4a 

God  jrin'd  my  heart  with  Romeo's, — then  ot.i  handa. 

And  ere  this  hand,  by  thee  to  Romeo  seal'd, 

Shall  be  the  label  to  another  deed. 

Or  my  true  heart  with  treacherous  revolt 

Turn  to  another, — this  shall  slay  them  both! 

Thus,  in  the  very  tempest  and  whirlwind  of  pas> 
rion  and  terror,  preserving,  to  a  certain  degree, 
that  moral  and  feminine  dignity  which  harmonizea 
with  our  best  feelings,  and  commands  our  unr©- 
proved  sympathy. 

I  reserve  my  remarks  on  the  catastrophe,  which 
demands  separate  consideration ;  and  return  to 
trace  from  the  opening,  another  and  distinguishing 
trait  in  Juliet's  character. 

In  the  extreme  vivacity  of  her  imagination,  and 
its  influence  upon  the  action,  the  language,  the 
sentiments  of  the  drama,  Juliet  resembles  Portia ; 
but  with  this  striking  difference.  In  Portia,  the 
imaginative  power,  though  developed  in  a  high 
degree,  is  so  equally  blended  with  the  other  intel- 
lectual and  moral  faculties,  that  it  does  not  give  ua 
the  idea  of  excess.  It  is  subject  to  her  nobler 
reason ;  it  adorns  and  heightens  aU  her  feelings ;  it 
does  not  overwhelm  or  mislead  them.  In  Juliet,  it 
is  rather  a  part  of  her  southern  temperament,  con- 
trolling and  modifying  the  rest  of  her  character ; 
Bpringing  from  her  sensibility,  hurried  along  by 
her  passions,  animating  her  joys,  darkening  heT 
forrows,  exaggerating  her  terrors,  and,  in  the  end, 
♦verpowenng  her  reason.  With  Juliet,  imagmar 
ton  is,  in  the  first  instance,  if  not  the  source,  tha 


144  CUAIIACTERS  OF   PASfilON,   ETC. 

medium  of  passion  ;  and  passion  again  kiniUes  hok 
imaginatiou.  It  is  through  the  power  of  imaginik 
tion  that  the  eloquence  of  Juliet  is  so  vividly 
poeweal ;  that  every  feelirig,  every  sentiment  come* 
to  her,  clothed  in  the  richest  imagery,  and  is  thu» 
refl^ycted  from  her  mind  to  ours.  The  poetry  is  not 
here  the  mere  adornment,  the  outward  garnishing 
of  the  character ;  but  its  result,  or  rather  blended 
with  its  essence.  It  is  indivisible  from  it,  and  inter- 
fused through  it  like  moonlight  through  the  summer 
air.  To  particularize  is  almost  impossible,  since 
the  whole  of  the  dialogue  appropriated  to  Juliet  ia 
one  rich  stream  of  imagery :  she  speaks  in  pictures 
and  sometimes  they  are  crowded  one  upon  another 
— ^.hus  in  the  balcony  scene — 

I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night: 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvised,  too  sudden, 
Too  like  the  lightning  which  doth  cease  to  be 
Ere  one  can  say  it  lightens. 

This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath. 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  nexl  we  meet. 

Again, 

0  for  a  falconer's  voice 
To  lore  this  tassel-gentle  back  again ! 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  alond, 
Else  would  I  tear  the  ''ave  where  Echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than  mine 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name. 

Beie  there  ai^e  three  images  in  the  coarse  of  m 


JVL1X.T.  145 

lines.  In  the  same  scene,  the  speech  of  twenty- 
two  lines,  beginning, 

Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  mj  face, 

ronUiins  but  one  figurative  expression,  the  mask  of 
nighl ;  and  every  one  reading  this  speech  with  the 
context,  must  have  felt  the  peculiar  propriety  of  ita 
simplicity,  though  perhaps  without  examining  the 
iiause  of  an  omission  which  certainly  is  not  foi^ 
luitous.  The  reason  lies  in  the  situation  and  in 
the  feeling  of  the  moment ;  where  confusion,  and 
anxiety,  and  earnest  self-defence  predominate,  the 
excitability  and  play  of  the  imagination  would  be 
checked  and  subdued  for  the  time. 

In  the  soliloquy  of  the  second  act,  where  she  if 
chiding  at  the  nurse's  delay  : — 

O  she  is  lame !    Love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts, 
That  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun's  beams. 
Driving  back  shadows  over  low'ring  hills : 
Therefore  do  nimble-pinioned  doves  draw  Love, 
And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings  1 

How  beautiftd  1  how  the  lines  mount  and  float 
responsive  to  the  sense  I    She  goes  on — 

Had  she  afPections,  and  warm  youthful  blood, 
She'd  be  as  swift  in  motion  as  a  ball ; 
My  words  should  bandy  her  to  my  sweet  love, 
And  his  to  me : 

The  famous  soliloquy,  "  Gallop  apace,  ye  fiery- 
footed  steeds,"  teems  with  luxuriant  imagery.  The 
bnd  adjuration,  "  Come  night  1  come  Romeo  1  comt 


i46  <mARACTBR8   OF  PASSION,   ETC. 

thou  day  in  night  I "  expresses  that  fulness  of  en* 
thusiastic  admiration  for  her  lover,  which  possessef 
her  whole  soul;  but  expresses  it  as  only  Juliet 
could  or  would  have  expressed  it, — in  a  bold  and 
beautiful  metaphor.  Let  it  be  remembered,  that,  in 
this  speech,  Juliet  is  not  supposed  to  be  addressing 
an  audience,  nor  even  a  confidante  ;  and  I  confess 
I  liave  been  shocked  at  the  utter  want  of  taste  and 
refinement  in  those  who,  with  coarse  derision,  or 
in  a  spirit  of  prudery,  yet  more  gross  and  perverse, 
have  dared  to  comment  on  this  beautiful  "  Hymn 
to  the  Night,"  breathed  out  by  Juliet  in  the  silence 
and  solitude  of  her  chamber.  She  is  thinking 
aloud  ;  it  is  the  young  heart  "  triumpliing  to  itself 
in  words."  In  the  midst  of  all  the  vehemence  with 
which  she  calls  upon  the  night  to  bring  Romeo  to 
her  arms,  there  is  something  so  almost  infantine  in 
her  perfect  simplicity,  so  p]a}'ful  and  fantastic  in 
the  imagery  and  language,  that  the  charm  of  sen- 
timent and  innocence  is  thrown  over  the  whole ; 
and  her  impatience,  to  use  her  own  expression,  ia 
truly  that  of  "  a  child  before  a  festival,  that  hath 
new  robes  and  may  not  wear  them."  It  is  at  the 
very  moment  too  that  her  whole  heart  and  fanc^ 
are  abandoned  to  blissful  anticipation,  that  the 
nurse  enters  with  the  news  of  Romeo's  banishment ; 
and  the  immediate  transition  from  rapture  to  de> 
gpair  has  a  most  powerful  effect. 

It  is  the  same  shaping  spirit  of  imagination  whicK 
in  the  scene  with  the  Friar,  heaps  together  all  im- 
ages of  horror  that  ever  hung  upon  a  troublee 
iruam. 


JULIET.  141 

O  bid  CO  leap,  rather  than  marry  Paris, 
From  off  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower, 
Or  walk  in  thievish  ways;  or  bid  me  lurk 
Where  serpents  are — chain  me  with  roaring  b«an, 
Or  shut  me  nightly  in  a  charnel-lyjuse 
O'ercovered  quite  with  dead  men's  rattling  bone* ; 
Or  bid  me  go  into  a  new  made  grave ; 
Or  hide  me  with  a  dead  man  in  his  shrond ; — 
Things  that  to  hear  them  told  have  made  me  trembls 

But  sLe  immediately  adds, — 

And  I  will  do  it  without  fear  or  doubt. 

To  live  an  unstained  wife  to  my  sweet  love ! 

In  the  scene  where  she  drinks  the  sleeping  po 
6on,  although  her  spirit  does  not  quail,  nor  her  de" 
termination  falter  for  an  instant,  her  vivid  fancy 
conjures  up  one  terrible  apprehension  after  another, 
till  gradually,  and  most  naturally  in  such  a  mind 
once  thrown  off  its  poise,  the  horror  rises  to  frenzy 
— her  imagination  realizes  its  own  hideous  crea- 
tions, and  she  sees  her  cousin  Tybalt's  ghost.  * 

In  particular  passages  this  luxuriance  of  fancy 
may  seem  to  wander  into  excess.     For  instance^— 

O  serpent  heart,  hid  with  a  flowery  face! 
Did  ever  dragon  keep  so  fan:  a  cave  ? 
Beautiful  tyrant !  fiend  angelical ! 
Dove-feather  d  raven!  wolfish  ravening  lamb,  &o. 

•  Jnliet,  courageously  drinking  off  the  potion,  after  she  hM 
^iMsed  before  herself  in  the  most  l^rful  colors  all  its  possible 
Mmseqnences,  is  compared  b;  Schlegol  to  the  Sunoiis  story  ^ 
Uesander  an  jl  his  physicSan. 


'48  CHARACTERS   OF   PAb&ION,  KTC. 

Yet  this  highly  figurative  and  antithetical  e» 
aberance  of  language  is  defended  by  Schlegel  on 
itrong  and  just  grounds ;  and  to  me  also  it  appears 
natural,  however  critics  may  argue  against  its  taste 
or  p)-opriet}.*  The  warmth  and  vivacity  of  Juliet's 
fancy,  which  plays  like  a  light  over  every  part  of 
her  character — which  animates  every  line  she  utten 
— which  kindles  every  thought  into  a  picture,  and 
clothes  her  emotions  in  visible  images,  would  natu- 
rally, under  strong  and  unusual  excitement,  and  in 
the  conflict  of  opposing  sentiments,  run  into  some 
extravagance  of  diction.f 

With  regard  to  the  termination  of  the  play,  which 

•  Verhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  together 
Thoughts  80  all  unlike  each  other; 
To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm. 
To  dsJly  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm! 
Perhaps  'tis  tender,  too,  and  pretty, 
At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 
A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 
And  what  if  in  a  world  of  sin 
(0  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  be  true  I) 
8uch  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain, 
So  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  doT  Colsrisoi. 

Tliese  lines  seem  to  me  to  form  the  truest  comment  on  JuUet'i 
wild  exclamations  against  Romeo 

t  "  The  censure,"  observes  Schlegel.  originates  in  a  fkncileM 
way  of  thinking,  to  which  every  thing  appears  unnatural  that 
does  not  suit  its  tame  insipidity.  ITcnce  an  idea  has  been 
formed  of  simple  and  natural  pathos  which  consists  in  exclam»- 
yona  destitute  of  imagery,  and  nowise  elevated  above  every-daj 
Hfe;  but  energetic  passions  electrify  the  whole  mental  powen 
tnd  will,  consequently,  in  highly-Civored  natures,  ezpreis  then 
Wtm  io  an  lugeniooa  and  flguratlTe  manner  " 


I4» 


tias  been  a  subject  of  much  critical  argumeut,  it  ia 
Hrell  known  that  Shakspeare,  following  the  old 
English  versions,  has  departed  from  the  original 
itory  of  Da  Porta ;  *  and  I  am  inclined  to  believo 

*  The  "  Giulietta  "  of  Luigi  da  Porta  was  written  about  1520. 
In  a  popular  little  book  published  iu  1565,  thirty  years  before 
Bhakspeare  wrote  hia  tragedy,  the  name  of  Juliet  occurs  as  an 
example  of  faithful  love,  and  is  thus  explained  by  a  note  In  the 
taargin.  "Juliet,  a  noble  maiden  of  the  citle  of  Verona,  whish 
loved  Romeo,  eldest  son  of  the  Lord  Monteschl;  and  being  privily 
married  together,  he  at  last  poisoned  himself  for  love  of  her: 
she,  for  sorrow  of  his  death,  slew  herself  with  his  dagger."  Thi« 
uote,  which  furnishes,  in  brief,  the  whole  argument  of  Shak- 
speare's  play,  might  possibly  have  made  the  first  impression  on 
hia  fancy.  In  the  novel  of  Da  Porta  the  catastrophe  is  alto- 
gether different.  After  the  death  of  Romeo,  the  Friar  Lorenzo 
endeavors  to  persuade  Juliet  to  leave  the  fatal  monument.  She 
refuses;  and  throwing  herself  back  on  the  dead  body  of  her 
husband,  she  resolutely  holds  her  breath  and  dies. — "E  volta- 
tasi  al  giacente  corpo  di  Romeo,  il  cui  capo  sopra  un  origliere, 
che  con  lei  nell'  area  era  stato  lasciato.  posto  aveva;  gU  occhi 
meglio  rinchlusi  avendogli,  e  dl  lagrime  il  freddo  volto  bagnan- 
dogli,  disse;  "  Che  debbo  senza  di  te  in  vita  piii  fare,  signor  mio? 
e  che  altro  mi  resta  verso  te  se  non  colla  mia  morte  seguirti? 
"  E  detto  questo,  la  sua  gran  sciagura  nell'  animo  recatasi,  e  la 
perdita  del  caro  amante  ricordandosi,  deliberando  di  piu  non 
▼ivere,  raccolto  a  se  il  Sato,  e  per  buono  spazio  tenutolo,  e  poe* 
ria  con  un  gran  grido  fuori  mandandolo,  sopra  U  morto  corpo, 
morta  ricadde." 

There  is  nothing  so  ImprobaDle  In  the  story  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet  as  to  make  us  doubt  the  tradition  that  it  is  a  real  fiict. 
"The  Veronese,"  says  Lord  Byron,  In  one  of  his  letters  from 
Verona,  "  are  tenacious  to  a  degree  of  the  truth  of  Juliet's  story, 
Insisting  on  the  fiict,  giving  the  date  1303,  and  showing  a  tomb. 
It  is  a  plain,  open,  and  partly  decayed  sarcophagus  with  withered 
>eaTe8  in  it,  in  a  wild  and  desolate  conventual  garden — once  a 
lemetery,  now  ruined,  to  the  very  graves  The  situation  strucli 
na  M  very  appropriate  to  the  legend,  being  blighted  a«  tluta 


60  CHARACTERS    OF    PASSION,    ETC. 

4at  Da  Porta,  in  making  Juliet  waken  from  bet 
crauce  while  Romeo  yet  lives,  and  in  his  terrible 
final  scene  between  the  lovers,  has  himself  departed 
from  the  old  tradition,  and,  as  a  romance,  has  cei* 
tainly  improved  it ;  but  that  which  is  effective  in 
a  narrative,  is  not  always  calculated  for  the  drama 
and  I  cannot  but  agree  with  Schlegel,  that  Shak- 
ipeare  has  done  well  and  wisely  in  adhering  to  the 
old  story.  Can  we  doubt  for  a  moment  that  he  who 
has  given  us  the  catastrophe  of  Othello,  and  the 
Umpest  scene  in  Lear,  might  also  have  adopted 
these  additional  circumstances  of  horror  in  the  fate 
of  the  lovers,  and  have  so  treated  them  as  to  har- 
row up  our  very  soul — had  it  been  his  object  to  do 
BO  ?    But  apparently  it  was  not.    The  tale  is  one, 

Such  as,  once  heard,  in  gentle  heart  destroys 
All  pain  but  pity. 

It  is  in  truth  a  tale  of  love  and  sorrow,  not  of 
anguish  and  terror.  We  behold  the  catastrophe 
afar  off  with  scarcely  a  wish  to  avert  it  Romeo 
and  Juliet  must  die ;  their  destiny  is  fulfilled ;  they 
have  quaffed  off  the  cup  of  life,  with  all  its  infinite 
of  joys  and  agonies,  in  one  intoxicating  draught. 
What   have  they  to  do   more  upon   this  earth? 

loM."  He  mi^ht  bare  added,  that  vhen  Terona  itself  with  Iti 
unphitheatre  and  its  Paladian  structures,  lies  level  with  tb* 
•arth,  the  Tery  spot  on  which  it  stood  will  be  consecrated  by  tt» 
■Mmory  of  Juliet. 

When  in  Ittdy^,  I  met  a  gentleman,  who  being  then  "  <toM  k 
f*mr«  romantiqut,"  wore  a  fragment  of  Juliet's  tomb  sst  la 


JULIET.  1 51 

Toung,  Innocent,  loving  and  beloved,  they  descend 
logether  into  the  tomb :  but  Shakspeare  has  made 
fhat  ttnub  a  shrine  of  martyred  and  sainted  affec- 
tion consecrated  for  the  worship  of  all  hearts, — not 
a  dark  charnel  vault,  haunted  by  spectres  of  pain, 
rage,  and  desperation.  Romeo  and  Juliet  are 
pictured  lovely  in  death  as  in  life ;  the  sympathy 
they  inspire  does  not  oppress  us  with  tha*  suffocat- 
mg  sense  of  horror,  which  in  the  altered  tragedy 
makes  the  fall  of  the  curtain  a  relief;  but  all  pain 
is  lost  in  the  tenderness  and  poetic  beauty  of  the 
picture.  Romeo's  last  speech  over  his  bride  Is  not 
like  the  raving  of  a  disappointed  boy :  in  its  deep 
pathos,  its  rapturous  despair,  its  glowing  Imager}', 
there  is  the  very  luxury  of  life  and  love.  Juliet, 
who  had  drunk  off  the  sleeping  potion  in  a  fit  of 
frenzy,  wakes  calm  and  collected — 

I  do  remember  well  where  I  should  be, 
And  there  I  am — Where  is  my  Romeo? 

Th«J  profound  slumber  in  which  her  senses  have 
been  steeped  for  so  many  hours  has  tranquillized 
her  nerves,  and  stilled  the  fever  in  her  blood ;  she 
wakes  "  Hke  a  sweet  child  who  has  been  dreaming 
of  something  promised  to  it  by  its  mother,"  and 
ppens  her  eyes  to  ask  for  it — 

«...       Where  is  my  Romeo? 

4ie  is  answered  at  once, — 

Thy  Voflband  in  thy  bosom  Lere  lies  d««d. 


162  CHARACTEBS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

This  is  enough :  she  sees  at  once  the  whole  horrot 
of  her  situation — she  sees  it  with  a  quiet  and  re- 
lolved  despair — she  utters  no  reproach  against  th« 
Friar — ^makes  no  inquiries,  no  complaints,  except 
that  affecting  remonstrance — 

0  churl — drink  all,  and  leave  no  friendly  arop 
To  help  me  aftor ! 

All  that  is  left  to  hei  is  to  die,  and  she  dies.  Th* 
poem,  which  opened  with  the  enmity  of  the  two 
families,  closes  with  their  reconciliation  over  the 
breathless  remains  of  their  children  ;  and  no  vio- 
lent, frightful,  or  discordant  feeling  is  suffered  to 
mingle  with  that  soft  impression  of  melancholy  left 
within  the  heart,  and  which  Schlegel  compares  to 
one  long,  endless  sigh. 

"  A  youthful  passion,"  says  Groethe,  (alluding  to 
one  of  his  own  early  attachments,)  "  which  is  con- 
ceived and  cherished  without  any  certain  object, 
may  be  compared  to  a  shell  thro\vn  from  a  mortar 
by  night :  it  rises  calmly  in  a  brilliant  track,  acd 
Beems  to  mix,  and  even  to  dwell  for  a  moment, 
with  the  stars  of  heaven  ;  but  at  length  it  falls — it 
bursts — consuming  and  destroying  all  around,  even 
as  itself  expires." 

«  «  •  •  « 

To  conclude :  love,  considered  under  its  poeticai 
wpect,  is  the  union  of  passion  and  imagination 
and  accordingly,  to  one  of  these,  or  to  both,  all  th« 
qualities  of  Julief  s  mind  and  heart  (unfolding  and 
Turing  as  the  action  of  fhe  drama  proceeds)  varj 


19» 


je  fiftall^  tiaced;  the  former  concentrating  all 
those  natural  impulses,  fervent  affections  and  high 
energies,  which  lend  the  character  its  internal 
charm,  its  moral  power  and  individual  interest :  the 
latter  diverging  from  all  those  splendid  and  luxu- 
riant accompaniments  which  invest  it  with  its  ex- 
ternal glow,  its  beauty,  its  vigor,  its  freshness,  and 
its  truth. 

With  all  this  immense  capacity  of  affection  and 
imagination,  there  is  a  deficiency  of  reflection  and 
of  moral  energy  arising  from  previous  habit  and 
education :  and  the  action  of  the  drama,  while 
it  serves  to  develope  the  character,  appears  but 
its  natural  and  necessary  result.  "  Le  mystere 
de  I'existence,"  said  Madame  de  Stael  to  her 
daughter,  "c'est  le  rapport  de  nos  erreurs  avefl 
DOS  peines." 


HELENA. 

In  the  character  of  Juliet  *♦*>  have  seen  the  pa» 
«ionate  and  the  imaginative  blended  in  an  equal 
degree,  and  in  the  highest  conceivable  degree 
as  combined  with  delicate  female  nature.  In 
Helena  we  have  a  modificaticn  of  charac*^er  al- 
together distinct;  allied,  indeed,  to  Juliet  as  a 
picture  of  fervent,  enthusiastic,  self-forgetting  love, 
but  differing  wholly  from  her  in  other  respects ;  fof 
Helen  is  the  union  of  strength  of  passion  witli 
"trength  of  character. 


94  CUARACTERS  OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

"  To  be  tremblingly  alive  to  gentle  impregrions, 
Wid  yet  be  able  to  preserve,  when  the  prosecutioo 
of  a  design  requires  it,  an  immovable  heart  amidst 
even  the  most  imperious  causes  of  subduing  emo- 
tion, is  perhaps  not  an  impossible  constitution  of 
mind,  but  it  is  the  utmost  and  rarest  endowment  oi 
humanity."  *  Such  a  character,  almost  as  difficult 
to  delineate  in  fiction  as  to  find  in  real  life,  Iiaa 
Shakspeare  given  us  in  Helena ;  touched  with  the 
most  soul-subduing  pathos,  and  developed  with  the 
most  consummate  skiU. 

Helena,  as  a  woman,  is  more  passionate  than  im- 
aginative ;  and,  as  a  character,  she  bears  the  same 
relation  to  Juliet  that  Isabel  bears  to  Portia.  There 
is  equal  unity  of  purpose  and  effect,  with  much  le« 
of  the  glow  of  imagery  and  the  external  coloring  oi 
poetry  in  the  sentiments,  language,  and  details.  It 
is  passiou  developed  under  its  most  profound  and 
serious  aspect ;  as  in  Isabella,  we  have  the  serious 
and  the  thoughtful,  not  the  brilliant  side  of  intel- 
lect. Both  Helena  and  Isabel  are  distinguished  by 
high  mental  powers,  tinged  with  a  melancholy 
sweetness ;  but  in  Isabella  the  serious  and  energetic 
part  of  the  character  is  founded  in  religious  prin- 
ciple ;  in  Helena  it  is  founded  in  deep  passion. 

There  never  was,  perhaps,  a  more  beaudiul 
picture  of  a  woman's  love,  cherished  m  secret,  not 
*elf-consuming  in  silent  languishment — not  pming 
tn  thought — not  passive  and  "  desponding  over  iti 
idol  * — ^but  patient  and  hopeful,  strong  in  its  owf 

*  Voeter'a  Esaajs. 


HELENA.  155 

intensity,  and  sustained  by  its  own  fond  faith.  The 
passion  here  reposes  upon  itself  for  all  its  interest  -, 
it  derives  nothing  from  art  or  ornament  or  circum- 
•^ance ;  it  has  nothing  of  the  pi(;turesque  charm  or 
glowing  romance  of  Juliet ;  nothing  of  the  poetical 
splendor  of  Portia,  or  the  vestal  grandeur  of  Isabel. 
The  situation  of  Helena  is  the  most  painful  and 
degrading  in  which  a  woman  can  be  placed.  She 
is  poor  and  lowly ;  she  loves  a  man  who  is  far  her 
superior  in  rank,  who  repays  her  love  with  indiifer-. 
euce,  and  rejects  her  hand  with  scorn.  She  mar- 
ries him  against  his  will ;  he  leaves  her  with  con- 
tumely on  the  day  of  their  marriage,  and  makes  his 
return  to  her  arms  depend  on  conditions  apparently 
impossible.  *  AU  the  circumstances  and  details 
with  which  Helena  is  surrounded,  are  shocking  to 
our  feelings  and  wounding  to  our  dehcacy :  and  yet 
the  beauty  of  the  character  is  made  to  triumph  over 
all :  and  Shakspeare,  resting  for  all  his  efiect  on 
its  internal  resources  and  its  genuine  truth  and 
sweetness,  has  not  even  availed  himself  of  some 
extraneous  advantages  with  which  Helen  is  repre- 
lented  in  the  original  story.  She  is  the  Giletta  di 
Narbonna  of  Boccaccio.  In  the  Italian  tale,  Giletta 
is  the  daughter  of  a  celebrated  physician  attached 
to  the  court  of  Roussillon ;  she  is  represented  as  a 
Hcb  heiress,  who  rejects  many  suitors  of  worth  and 

*  I  hare  read  somevhere  t&at  the  play  of  which  Helena  is  thf 
^«roine,  (All's  'Well  that  Ends  Well,)  -was  at  first  entitled  bj 
Bhakgpeaie  "Loye's  Labor  Wno."  Wh;  the  title  was  aiteiaA 
IV  liy  whom.,  I  cannot  discover 


156  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,  ETC. 

rank,  in  consequence  of  her  secret  attacliment  tc 
the  young  Bertram  de  Roussillon.  She  cures  the 
King  of  France  of  a  grievous  distemper,  by  one  of 
her  fathei  *s  prescriptions ;  and  she  asks  and  re. 
ceives  as  her  reward  the  young  Count  of  Roussillon 
as  her  wedded  husband.  He  forsakes  her  on  their 
wedding  day,  and  she  retires,  by  his  order,  to  hia 
territory  of  Roussillon.  There  she  is  received  with 
honor,  takes  state  upon  her  in  her  husband's  ab- 
sence as  the  "  lady  of  the  land,"  administers  justice, 
and  rules  her  lord's  dominions  so  wisely  and  so 
well,  that  she  is  universally  loved  and  reverenced 
by  his  subjects.  In  the  mean  time,  the  Count,  in- 
stead of  rejoining  her,  flies  to  Tuscany,  and  the 
rest  of  the  story  is  closely  followed  in  the  drama. 
The  beauty,  wisdom,  and  royal  demeanor  of  Giletta 
are  charmingly  described,  as  well  as  her  fervent 
love  for  Beiiram.  But  Helena,  in  the  play,  derives 
no  dignity  or  interest  from  place  or  circumstance, 
and  rests  for  all  our  sympathy  and  respect  solely 
npon  the  truth  and  intensity  of  her  affections. 
She  is  indeed  represented  to  us  as  one 

Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes:  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive; 
Whose  dear  perfection,  hearts  tliat  scom'd  to  8«rv6, 
Humbly  called  mistress. 

As  her  dignity  is  derived  from  mental  power,  'wit)k 
out  any  alloy  of  pride,  so  her  humility  has  a  pectt 
liar  grace.  If  she  feels  and  repines  over  her  lowly 
birth,  it  is  merely  as  an  obstacle  which  sepai'ati* 


HELEXA.  19 > 

lier  from  the  man  slie  loves.  She  is  more  sensible 
to  his  greatness  than  her  own  littleness  :  she  is  con- 
tinually looking  from  herself  up  to  him,  not  from 
him  down  to  herself.  She  has  been  bred  up  under 
the  aaj^e  roof  with  him ;  she  has  adored  him  from 
infancy.  Her  love  is  not  "  th'  infection  taken  in  at 
the  eyes,"  nor  kindled  by  youthful  romance  :  it  ap- 
pears to  have  taken  root  in  her  being ;  to  Lave 
grown  with  her  years ;  and  to  have  gradually  ab- 
sorbed all  her  thoughts  and  faculties,  uutil  her 
fancy  "  carries  no  favor  in  it  but  Berti-am's,"  and 
"  there  is  no  hving,  none,  if  Berti'am  be  away." 

It  may  be  said  that  Bertram,  arrogant,  wayward, 
and  heartless,  does  not  justify  this  ardent  and  deep 
devotion.  But  Helena  does  not  behold  him  with 
our  eyes ;  but  as  he  is  "  sanctified  in  her  idolatrous 
fancy."  Dr.  Johnson  says  he  cannot  reconcile 
himself  to  a  man  who  marries  Helena  like  a  coward, 
and  leaves  her  like  a  profligate.  This  is  much  too 
severe ;  in  the  first  place,  there  is  no  necessity  that 
we  should  reconcile  ourselves  to  him.  In  this  con- 
Bisb?  a  part  of  the  wonderful  beauty  of  the  character 
of  Helena — a  part  of  its  womanly  truth,  which 
Johnson,  who  accuses  Bertram,  and  those  who  so 
plausibly  defend  him,  did  not  understand.  If  it 
never  happened  in  real  life,  that  a  woman,  richly 
endued  with  heaven's  best  gifts,  loved  with  all  her 
heart,  and  soul,  and  strength,  a  man  unequal  to  or 
tnworthy  of  ner,  and  to  whose  faults  herself  alone 
was  blind — ^I  would  give  up  the  point :  but  if  it  be 
n  nature,  why  should  it  not  be  in  Shakspeare  1 


158  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,    ETC. 

Wo  are  not  to  look  into  Bertram's  character  for  At 
»pring  and  source  of  Helena's  love  for  him,  but  into 
her  own.  She  loves  Bertram, — because  she  lovea 
him ! — a  woman's  reason, — ^but  here,  and  sometimes 
elsewhere,  all-sufficient. 

And  although  Helena  tells  herself  that  she  Iotm 
in  vain,  a  conviction  stronger  than  reason  tells  her 
that  she  does  not :  her  love  is  like  a  religion,  pnre, 
holy,  and  deep :  the  blessedness  to  which  she  has 
lifted  her  thoughts  is  forever  before  her ;  to  despair 
would  be  a  crime, — it  would  be  to  cast  herself 
away  and  die.  The  faith  of  her  affection,  combin- 
ing with  the  natural  energy  of  her  character,  be- 
heving  all  things  possible  makes  them  so.  It  could 
say  to  the  mountain  of  pride  which  stands  between 
her  and  her  hopes,  "  Be  thou  removed !  "  and  it  is 
removed.  This  is  the  solution  of  her  behavior  in 
the  marriage  scene,  where  Bertram,  with  obvious 
reluctance  and  disdain,  accepts  her  hand,  which  the 
king,  his  feudal  lord  and  guardian,  forces  on  him. 
Her  maidenly  feeling  is  at  first  shocked,  and  she 
shrinks  hack — 

Ihat  you  are  well  restor'd,  my  lord,  I  am  glad: 
Let  the  rest  go. 

But  shall  she  weakly  relinquish  the  golden  oppor- 
tunity, and  dash  the  cup  from  her  lips  at  the  mo* 
mcnt  it  is  presented  ?  Shall  she  cast  away  the 
treasure  for  which  she  has  ventured  both  life  and 
honor,  when  it  is  just  within  her  grasp  ?  Shall  she, 
ftfter  compromising  her  feminine  delicacy  by  *ht 


HELENA.  151 

(mblic  disclosure  of  her  preference,  be  thr:m  back 
into  sh£une,  "  to  blush  out  the  remainder  of  her 
life,"  and  iie  a  poor,  lost,  scorned  thing  ?  Thia 
would  be  very  pretty  and  interesting  and  character- 
istic in  Viola  or  Ophelia,  but  not  at  all  consistent 
with  that  high  determined  spirit,  that  moral  enei^, 
with  which  Helena  is  portrayed.  Pride  is  the  only 
obstacle  opposed  to  her.  She  is  not  despised  and 
rejected  aa  a  woman,  but  as  a  poor  physician's 
daughter ;  and  this,  to  an  understanding  so  clear, 
so  strong,  so  just  as  Helena's,  is  not  felt  as  an  un- 
pardonable insult.  The  mere  pride  of  rank  and 
birth  is  a  prejudice  of  which  she  cannot  comprehend 
the  force,  because  her  mind  towers  so  immeasurably 
above  it ;  and,  compared  to  the  infinite  love  which 
swells  within  her  own  bosom,  it  sinks  into  nothing. 
She  cannot  conceive  that  he,  to  whom  she  has  de- 
voted her  heart  and  truth,  her  soul,  her  hfe,  her 
service,  must  not  one  day  love  her  in  return  ;  and 
once  her  own  beyond  the  reach  of  fate,  that  her 
cares,  her  caresses,  her  unwearied  patient  tender- 
ness, will  not  at  last  "  win  her  lord  to  look  upon 
her"— 

For  time  will  bring  on  summer. 

When  briars  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 

And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp. 

It  is  this  fond  faith  which,  hoping  all  thinga^ 
enables  her  to  endure  all  things : — whirib  hallowa 
and  dignifies  the  surrender  of  her  woman's  pride, 
noaking  it  a  sacrifice  on  which  virtue  and  lovt 
throw  a  mingled  incense. 


Kn  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

'llie  scene  in  which  the  Countess  extorts  fronn 
Heli^n  the  confession  of  her  love,  must,  as  an  illus- 
tration, be  given  here.  It  is  perhaps,  tlie  finest  in 
the  whole  play,  and  brings  out  all  the  striking 
points  of  Helen's  character,  to  which  I  have  already 
alluded.  We  must  not  fail  to  remark,  that  though 
the  acknowledgment  is  wrung  from  her  with  an 
agony  which  seems  to  convulse  her  whole  being, 
yet  when  once  she  has  given  it  solemn  utterance, 
she  recovers  her  presence  of  mind,  and  asserts  her 
native  dignity.  In  her  justification  of  her  feelings 
and  her  conduct,  there  is  neither  sophistry,  nor 
self-deception,  nor  presumption,  but  a  noble  sun- 
pHcity,  combined  with  the  most  impassioned 
earnestness ;  while  the  language  naturally  rises  in 
its  eloquent  beauty,  as  the  tide  of  feeling,  now  first 
let  loose  from  the  bursting  heart,  comes  pouring 
forth  in  words.  The  whole  scene  is  wonderfully 
bcautifuL 

HELENA. 

What  is  yonr  pleasure,  madam? 

COUlfTESS. 

Ton  know,  Helen,  I  am  a  mother  to  yoa. 

HEIANA« 

Mine  honorable  mistress. 

COUNTESS 

Nay,  a  mother; 
Why  not  a  mother?  When  I  said  a  mother, 
Methooght  yoa  saw  a  serpent:  what's  in  mother, 
That  yoa  start  at  it  ?    I  say,  I  am  your  mother ; 


HELKNA.  161 

AjDd  pat  yon  in  the  catalogae  of  thos« 
That  were  enwombed  mine:  'tis  often  seen. 
Adoption  strives  with  nature ;  and  choice  breed* 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  s«ed8. 
You  ne'er  oppress'd  me  with  a  mother's  groan. 
Yet  I  express  to  you  a  mother's  care; — 
God's  mercy,  maiden !  does  it  curd  thy  blood, 
To  say,  I  am  thy  mother?    What's  the  matter 
That  this  distempered  messenger  of  wet, 
The  many-color'd  Iris,  rounds  thine  eye? 
Why  ? ^that  you  are  my  daughter  ? 

HELENA* 

That  I  am  not. 

COUIiTESS. 

I  tay,  I  am  yoor  mother. 

HELENA. 

Pardon,  madam: 
The  Count  Boussillon  cannot  be  my  brother: 
I  am  from  humble,  he  from  honor'd  name; 
Ko  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble: 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is:  and  I 
His  servant  live,  and  will  his  vassal  die: 
He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

OOT7NTESS. 

Nor  I  your  mother? 

HELENA. 

Yon  are  my  mother,  madam;  would  you  were 
(So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother,) 
Indeed  my  mother,  or,  were  you  both  our  mother^ 
I  care  no  more  for,  than  1  do  for  Heaven,* 

*  L  •.    I  oar*  M  nnolt  for  as  I  lo  for  heavMi 
11 


16S  CHARACTERS   OF    PA8SI0X,  ETOr 

So  I  were  not  his  sister;  can't  no  other. 

Bat  I,  yonr  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brothv? 

COWTKBB. 

Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter-in-law; 
God  shield,  you  mean  it  not !  daughter  and  mctibfll 
So  strive  upon  your  pulse:  what,  pale  again? 
My  fear  hath  catch'd  your  fondness:  now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 
Your  salt  tears'  head.    Kow  to  all  sense  'tis  groM 
You  love  my  son;  invention  is  asham'd. 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion, 
To  say,  thou  dost  not:  therefore  tell  me  true; 
But  tell  me,  then,  'tis  so: — for,  look,  thy  cheeks 
Confess  it,  one  to  the  other. 

Speak,  is't  so? 
If  it  be  so,  you  have  wound  a  goodly  clue  I 
If  it  be  not,  forswear't:  howe'er,  I  charge  thae, 
As  heaven  shall  wojk  in  me  for  thy  avail. 
To  tell  me  truly. 

Good  madam,  pardon  me  I 

OQUNTE88. 

1)0  you  lore  my  son? 

HELENA. 

Your  pardon,  noble  miatnwl 

OOUltTESS. 

Love  yoa  my  son? 

HELENA. 

Do  not  you  love  him,  m«daa  t 

OOUNTBSS. 

Oe  BOt  about;  my  love  hath  in't »  bond, 


HELEXA.  163 

Whereof  the  world  takes  note:  come,  come,  discloM 
The  state  of  your  affection ;  for  your  pa^sionfl 
Have  to  the  full  appeach'd. 

HELENA. 

Then  I  confess 
dere  on  my  knee,  before  high  heaven  and  yon, 
That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  heaven, 
I  love  your  son: — 
.  My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest ;  so's  my  love 
Be  not  offended ;  for  it  hurts  not  him. 
That  he  is  loved  of  me ;  1  follow  him  not 
By  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit ; 
Nor  would  I  have  him  till  I  do  deserve  him: 
Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 
I  know  I  love  in  vain ;  strive  against  hope ; 
Yet,  in  this  captious  and  untenible  sieve, 
I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love. 
And  lack  not  to  love  still :  thus,  Indian-like, 
Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 
The  sun  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper, 
But  knows  of  him  no  more.    My  dearest  madam, 
Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love, 
For  loving  where  you  do :  but,  if  yourselt, 
Whose  aged  honor  cites  a  virtuous  youth, 
Did  ever  in  so  true  a  flame  of  liking. 
Wish  chastely,  and  love  dearly,  that  your  Dian 
Was  both  herself  and  love ;  0  then  give  pity 
To  her,  whose  state  is  such,  that  cannot  chooae 
But  lend  and  give,  where  she  is  sure  to  lose ; 
That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies. 
But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies. 


This  old  Countess  of  Roussillon  is  a  charming 
iketcb.     She  is  like  one  of  Titian's  old  women,  whi 


.  64  CHAKACTEKS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

itill,  amid  their  wrinkles,  remind  us  of  that  soul  of 
beauty  and  sensibility,  which  must  have  animated 
them  when  young.  She  is  a  fine  contrast  to  Lady 
Capulet — ^benign,  cheerful,  and  affectionate ;  she 
has  a  benevolent  enthusiasm,  which  neither  age, 
nor  sorrow,  nor  pride  can  wear  away.  Thus,  when 
Bte  is  brought  to  believe  that  Helen  nourishes  a 
iecret  attachment  for  her  son,  she  observea— 

Even  BO  it  was  with  me  when  I  was  young! 

This  thorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong, 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth. 
When  love's  strong  passion  is  impress'd  in  youth. 

Her  fond,  maternal  love  for  Helena,  whom  she 
has  brought  up :  her  pride  in  her  good  qualiti<ifl 
overpowering  all  her  own  prejudices  of  rank  and 
birth,  are  most  natural  in  such  a  mind;  and  her 
indignation  against  her  son,  however  strongly  ex> 
pressed,  never  forgets  the  mother. 

What  angel  shall 
Bless  this  unworthy  husband?  he  cannot  thrive 
Unless  her  prayers,  whom  heaven  delights  to  hear 
And  loves  to  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  greatest  justice. 

Which  of  them  both 
Is  dearest  to  me — I  have  no  skill  in  sensA 
To  make  distinction. 

Tliia  is  very  skilfully,  as  well  as  delicately  cott 
eeived.  In  rejecting  those  poetical  and  accidents, 
advantages  which  Giletta  possesses  in  the  originib 


16a 


Itory,  Shakspeare  has  substituted  the  beautliiil 
character  of  the  Countess ;  and  he  has  contrived, 
that,  as  the  character  of  Helena  should  rest  for  ita 
internal  charm  on  the  depth  of  her  own  affectiona, 
BO  it  should  depend  for  its  external  interest  on  the 
affection  she  inspires.  The  enthusiastic  tendemesa 
of  the  old  Countess,  the  admiration  and  respect  of 
the  King,  Lafeu,  and  all  who  are  brought  in  con- 
nection with  her,  make  amends  for  the  humiliating 
neglect  of  Bertram;  and  cast  round  Helen  that 
collateral  light,  which  Giletta  in  the  story  owes  to 
other  circumstances,  striking  indeed,  and  well  im- 
agined, but  not  (I  think)  so  finely  harmonizing 
with  the  character. 

It  is  also  very  natural  that  Helen,  with  the  in- 
tuitive discernment  of  a  pure  and  upright  mind, 
and  the  penetration  of  a  quick-witted  woman, 
should  be  the  first  to  detect  the  falsehood  and 
cowardice  of  the  boaster  ParoUes,  who  imposes  on 
every  one  else. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  there  is  less  of  poet- 
ical imagery  in  this  play  than  in  many  of  the 
others.  A  certain  solidity  in  Helen's  character 
lakes  place  of  the  ideal  power ;  and  with  consistent 
truth  of  keeping,  the  same  predominance  of  feeling 
over  fancy,  of  the  reflective  over  the  imaginative 
faculty,  is  maintained  through  the  whole  dialogue. 
Yet  the  finest  passages  in  the  serious  scenes  are 
Jiose  appropriated  to  her ;  they  are  familiar  and 
celebrated  as  quotations,  but  fully  to  understand 
5heir  beauty  and  truth,  they  should  be  considered 


l6B        characters  ok  passion,  ktc. 

relatively  to  her  character  and  atuation;  tbu, 
when  in  speaking  of  Bertram,  she  says,  "  that  he  is 
one  to  whom  she  wishes  well,"  the  consciousness  of 
the  disproportion  between  her  words  and  her  feet 
ings  draws  from  her  this  beautiful  and  affecting  olv- 
servation,  so  just  in  itself,  and  so  true  to  her  situ- 
ation, and  to  the  sentiment  which  fills  her  whole 

heart: — 

'Tis  pity 
That  wishing  well  had  not  a  body  in't 
Which  might  be  felt:  that  we  the  poorer  bom. 
Whose  baser  stars  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes, 
Might  with  eiTects  of  them  follow  our  friends, 
And  act  what  we  mast  only  think,  which  never 
Betnms  us  thanks. 

Some  of  her  general  reflections  have  a  senten* 
tious  depth  and  a  contemplative  melancholy,  whicii 
remind  us  of  Isabella : — 

Our  remedies  oft  in  themselves  do  lie 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven ;  the  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope ;  only  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 

Impossible  be  strange  events  to  those 

That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense;  and  do  rappM% 

What  hath  been  cannot  be. 

lie  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher, 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister; 
So  holy  writ  In  babes  hath  judgment  shown, 
When  judges  have  been  babes. 

Oft  expectation  fails,  and  moet  oft  thert 


iH 


WLcre  most  it  premises ;  and  oft  it  hita, 
Where  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  site. 

Her  sentiments  in  the  same  manner  are  remark* 
able  for  the  union  of  profound  sense  with  the  most 
passionate  feeling ;  and  when  her  language  is  figu- 
rative, which  is  seldom,  the  picture  presented  to  us 
is  invariably  touched  either  with  a  serious,  a  lofty, 
or  a  me'ancholy  beauty.    For  instance : — 

It  were  all  one 
That  I  shonld  love  a  bright  particular  star, 
And  think  to  wed  it — he's  so  far  above  me. 

And  when  she  is  brought  to  choose  a  husband 
from  among  the  young  lords  at  the  court,  her  heart 
having  already  made  its  election,  the  strangeness 
of  that  very  privilege  for  which  she  had  ventured 
all,  nearly  overpowers  her,  and  she  says  beauti* 
fully:— 

The  blushes  on  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me, 
"  We  blush  that  thou  shouldst  choose ; — but  be  refosed. 
Let  the  white  death  sit  on  that  cheek  for  ever 
We'll  ne'er  come  there  again  1 " 

In  her  soliloquy  after  she  has  been  forsaken  by 
Bertram,  the  beauty  lies  in  the  intense  feeling,  the 
force  and  simplicity  of  the  expressions.  There  is 
little  imagery,  and  wherever  it  occurs,  it  is  as  bold 
as  it  is  beautiful,  and  springs  out  of  the  energy  of 
die  sentiment,  and  the  pathos  of  the  situation.  Sh« 
\af>  been  reading  his  cruel  letter. 


i6S  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSIOK,  ETC. 

7U  Ihavt  no  trife  Ihave  nothing  in  France. 

•Tis  bitter! 

Nothing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife ! 

Thoa  shalt  have  none,  Ronssillon,  none  in  FnuuM^ 

Then  hast  thon  all  again.    Poor  lord !  Is't  I 

That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 

Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 

Of  the  none-sparing  war?    And  is  it  I 

That  drive  thee  from  the  sj>ortive  court,  where  tho* 

Wast  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 

Of  smoky  muskets?    0  you  leaden  messengers, 

That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire, 

Fly  with  false  aim !  move  the  still-piercing  air, 

That  sings  with  piercing,  do  not  touch  my  lord! 

Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there; 

Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 

I  am  the  caitiff  that  do  hold  him  to  it; 

And  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 

His  death  was  so  effected ;  better  'twere 

I  met  the  ravin  lion  when  he  roared 

With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger;  better  'twere 

That  all  the  miseries  which  nature  owes, 

Were  mine  at  once. 

No,  no,  although 
The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house, 
And  angels  oficed  all;  I  will  be  gone. 

Though  I  cannot  go  the  length  of  those  who  have 
defended  Bertram  on  abnost  every  point,  still  ] 
think  the  censure  which  Johnson  has  passed  on  the 
character  is  much  too  severe.  Bertram  is  certainly 
Dot  a  pattern  hero  of  romance,  but  full  of  faults 
luch  as  we  meet  with  every  day  in  men  of  his  age 
tnd  class.     He  is  a  bold,  ardent,  self-willed  youtlk 


199 


fast  dismissed  into  the  world  from  domestic  indul- 
gence, with  an  excess  of  aristocratic  and  military 
pride,  but  not  without  some  sense  of  true  honor 
and  generosity.  I  have  lately  read  a  defence  of 
Bertram's  character,  written  with  much  elegance 
and  plausibility.  "  The  young  Count,"  says  this 
critic,  "  comes  before  us  possessed  of  a  good  heart, 
and  of  no  mean  capacity,  but  with  a  haughtiness 
which  threatens  to  dull  the  kinder  passions,  and  to 
cloud  the  intellect.  This  is  the  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  an  illustrious  education.  The  glare  of 
his  birthright  has  dazzled  his  young  faculties.  Per- 
haps the  first  words  he  could  distinguish  were  from 
the  important  nurse,  giving  elaborate  directions 
about  his  lordship's  pap.  As  soon  as  he  could  walk, 
a  crowd  of  submissive  vassals  doffed  their  caps,  and 
hailed  his  first  appearance  on  his  legs,  ffis  spell- 
ing book  had  the  arms  of  the  family  emblazoned 
on  the  cover.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  hear 
himself  called  the  great,  the  mighty  son  of  Roussil- 
lon,  ever  since  he  was  a  helpless  child.  A  succes- 
sion of  complacent  tutors  would  jy  no  means  de- 
stroy the  illusion  ;  and  it  is  from  their  hands  that 
Shakspeare  receives  him,  while  yet  in  his  minority. 
An  overweening  pnde  of  birth  is  Bertram's  great 
foible.  To  cure  him  of  this,  Shakspeare  sends  him 
M  the  wars,  that  he  may  win  fame  for  himself,  and 
thus  exchange  a  shadow  for  a  rccility.  There  the 
great  dignity  that  his  valor  acquired  for  him  places 
tiim  on  an  equcility  with  any  one  of  his  ancestors, 
M>d  he  is  no  longer  beholden  to  them  alone  for  tha 


170  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,    ETC. 

iforld's  observance.  Thus  in  his  own  person  he 
discovers  there  is  something  better  than  mere 
hereditary  honors;  and  his  heart  is  prepared  te 
acknowledge  that  the  entire  devotion  of  a  Helen's 
lOve  is  of  more  worth  than  the  court-bred  smiles  of 
a  princess."  * 

It  is  not  extraordinary  that,  in  the  first  instance, 
his  spirit  should  revolt  at  the  idea  of  marrying  hia 
mother's  "  waiting  gentlewoman,"  or  that  he  should 
refuse  her ;  yet  when  the  king,  his  feudal  lord,  whose 
despotic  authority  was  in  this  case  legal  and  in- 
disputable, threatens  him  with  the  extremity  of  his 
wrath  and  vengeance,  that  he  should  submit  him- 
self to  a  hard  necessity,  was  too  consistent  with  the 
manners  of  the  time  to  be  called  cowardice.  Such 
forced  marriages  were  not  uncommon  even  in  our 
own  country,  when  the  right  of  wardship,  now 
vested  in  the  Lord  Chancellor,  was  exercised  with 
uncontrolled  and  often  cruel  despotism  by  the 
sovereign. 

There  is  an  old  ballad,  in  which  the  king  bestowi 
a  maid  of  low  degree  on  a  noble  of  his  court,  and 
the  undisguised  scorn  and  reluctance  of  the  knight 
Kltd  the  pertinacity  of  the  lady,  are  in  point. 

He  brought  her  down  full  forty  pound 

Tyed  up  within  a  glove, 
"  Fair  maid,  I'll  give  the  same  to  thee, 

Go  seek  another  love." 

0  I'll  have  none  of  your  gold,"  she  said, 
~  Nor  I'll  have  none  of  your  fee ; 

•  ll«w  Monthly  MagasiiM.  TOL  tt 


nELENA.  171 

Bat  your  fair  bodye  I  must  have, 
The  king  hath  granted  me." 

Sir  William  ran  and  fetched  her  then, 

Five  hundred  pounds  in  jjold, 
Saying,  "  Fair  maid,  taxe  this  to  thee, 

My  fault  will  ne'er  be  told." 

'  *Ti8  not  the  gold  that  shall  me  tempt," 

These  words  then  answered  she ; 
"  But  your  own  bodye  I  must  have, 
The  king  hath  granted  me." 

"  Would  I  had  drank  the  water  clear, 

When  I  did  drink  the  wine, 
Rather  than  my  shepherd's  brat 

Should  be  a  ladye  of  mine  I  "  * 

Bertram's  disgust  at  the  tyranny  which  haa  mada 
his  freedom  the  payment  of  another's  debt,  which 
has  united  him  to  a  woman  whose  merits  are  not 
towards  him — whose  secret  love,  and  long-enduring 
faith,  are  yet  unknown  and  untried — might  weU 
make  his  bride  distasteful  to  him.  He  flies  her  on 
the  very  day  of  their  marriage,  most  like  a  wilful, 
haughty,  angry  boy,  but  not  Uke  a  profligate.  On 
other  points  he  is  not  so  easily  defended ;  and 
Shakspeare,  we  see,  has  not  defended,  but  corrected 
him.  The  latter  part  of  the  play  is  more  perplex- 
ing than  pleivsing.  We  do  not,  indeed,  repine  with 
Dr.  Johnson,  that  Bertram,  after  all  his  misde- 
ueanors,  is  "  dismissed  to  happiness ; "  but,  not< 

*  Percy's  Re&(;iu«i. 


172  CHARACTERS   OP  PASSION,   ETC. 

mthstauding  the  clever  defence  that  has  been  mada 
for  him,  he  has  our  pardon  rather  than  our  sym- 
pathy ;  and  for  mine  own  part,  I  could  find  h 
easier  to  love  Bertram  as  Helena  does,  than  to  ex- 
nose  him ;  her  love  for  him  is  his  best  excoae. 


PERDITA. 

In  Viola  and  Perdita  the  distinguishing  traits  are 
the  same — sentiment  and  elegance ;  thus  we  as- 
sociate them  together,  though  nothing  can  be  more 
distinct  to  the  fancy  than  the  Doric  grace  of  Per- 
dita, compared  to  the  romantic  sweetness  of  Viola. 
They  are  created  out  of  the  same  materials,  and 
are  equal  to  each  other  in  the  tenderness,  delicacy, 
and  poetical  beauty  of  the  conception.  They  are 
both  more  imaginative  than  passionate ;  but  Per- 
dita is  the  more  imaginative  of  the  two.  She  is  the 
union  of  the  pastoral  and  romantic  with  the  cla»- 
sical  and  poetical,  as  if  a  dryad  of  the  woods  had 
turned  shepherdess.  The  perfections  with  which 
the  poet  has  so  lavishly  endowed  her,  sit  upon  her 
wtth  a  certain  careless  and  picturesque  grace,  "  as 
though  they  had  fallen  upon  her  unawares."  Thus 
Belphoebe,  in  the  Fairy  Queen,  issues  from  the 
flowering  forest  with  hair  and  garments  all  be- 
iprinkled  with  thw  leaves  and  blossoms  they  had 
entangled  in  their  flight ;  and  so  arrayed  by  chance 
uid  *'  heedless  hap,"  takes  all  hearts  with  "  stateh 


178 


presence  and  with  princely  port," — most  like  to 
Perdita ! 

The  story  of  Pijrizel  and  Perdita  is  but  an  epi- 
sode in  the  "  Winter's  Tale ; "  and  the  character  ol 
Perdita  is  properly  kept  subordinate  to  that  of  her 
mother,  Hermione :  yet  the  picture  is  perfectly 
finished  in  every  part ; — Juliet  herself  is  not  more 
firmly  and  distinctly  drawn.  But  the  coloring  in 
Perdita  is  more  silvery  light  and  delicate  ;  the  per- 
vading sentiment  more  touched  with  the  ideal; 
compared  with  Juliet,  she  is  like  a  Guido  hung  be- 
side a  Georgione,  or  one  of  Paesiello's  airs  heard 
after  one  of  Mozart's. 

The  qualities  which  impart  to  Perdita  her  distinct 
individuality,  are  the  beautiful  combination  of  the 
pastoral  with  the  elegant — of  simplicity  with  ele- 
vation— of  spirit  with  sweetness.  The  exquisite 
delicacy  of  the  picture  is  apparent  To  undei^ 
stand  and  appreciate  its  effective  truth  and 
nature,  we  should  place  Perdita  beside  some  of 
the  nymphs  of  Arcadia,  or  the  Chloris'  and  Sylvias 
of  the  Italian  pastorals,  who,  however  graceful  in 
themselves,  when  opposed  to  Perdita,  seem  to  melt 
away  into  mere  poetical  abstractions ; — as,  in 
•:Spenser,  the  fair  but  fictitious  Florimel,  which  the 
subtle  enchantress  had  moulded  out  of  snow,  "  ver- 
meil tinctured,"  and  informed  with  an  airy  spirit, 
that  knew  "  all  wiles  of  woman's  wits,"  fades  and 
dissolves  away,  when  placed  next  to  the  real  Flori- 
»iel,  in  her  warm,  breathing,  human  loveliness. 

Perdita  does  not  appear  till  the  fourth  act,  and 


174  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

the  whole  of  the  character  is  developed  in  the 
course  of  a  single  scene,  (the  third,)  with  a  com 
pleteness  of  elTect  which  leaves  nothing  to  be 
ttjquired — nothing  to  be  supplied.  She  is  first 
introduced  in  the  dialogue  between  herself  and 
Florizel,  where  she  compares  her  own  lowly  state 
to  his  prijicely  rank,  and  expresses  her  fears  of  the 
issue  of  their  unequal  attachment.  With  all  her 
timidity  and  her  sense  of  the  distance  which  sepa- 
rates her  from  her  lover,  she  breathes  not  a  single 
word  which  could  lead  us  to  impugn  either  her 
delicacy  or  her  dignity. 

FLORIZEL. 

These  your  anosnal  weeds  to  each  part  of  you 
Do  give  a  life — ^no  shepherdess,  but  Flora 
Peering  in  April's  front ;  this  your  sheep-ehearii^ 
Is  as  the  meeting  of  the  petty  gods. 
And  you  the  queen  on't. 

FERDrrA. 

Sir,  my  gracious  lord, 

To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me; 

0  pardon  that  I  name  them :  your  high  self. 

The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscured 

With  a  swain's  bearing;  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid, 

Most  goddess-like  prank'd  up : — but  that  our  feasti 

In  every  mess  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 

Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 

To  see  you  so  attired ;  sworn,  I  think 

To  show  myself  a  glass. 

The  impression  of  her  perfect  beauty  and  airy 
elegance  of  demeanor  is  conveyed  in  two  exqointe 


179 


■What  you  do 
Still  betters  what  is  done.    When  you  speak,  sweet, 
I'd  have  you  do  it  ever.    When  you  sing, 
I'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so;  so  give  alms, 
Pray  so,  and  for  the  ordering  your  affairs 
To  sing  them  too.    ^Vhen  you  do  dance,  I  wish  yon 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function. 

I  take  thy  hand;  this  hand 
As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it; 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow, 
That's  bolted  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 

The  artless  manner  in  which  her  innate  nobihty 
of  soul  shines  forth  through  her  pastoral  disguise,  ia 
thus  brought  before  us  at  once : — 

This  is  the  prettiest  low-bom  lass  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green  sward;  nothing  she  does  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Her  natural  lofhnesa  of  spirit  breaks  out  where 
she  ia  menaced  and  reviled  by  the  King,  as  one 
whom  his  son  has  degraded  himself  by  merely  look- 
ing on ;  she  bears  the  royal  frown  without  quailing ; 
but  the  moment  he  is  gone,  the  immediate  recollec- 
don  of  herself,  and  of  her  humble  state,  of  her  hap- 
less love,  is  full  of  beauty,  tenderness,  and  nature  >— 

Even  here  undoue! 
I  was  much  afeard :  for  once  or  twice, 
I  wu  about  to  speak ;  and  tell  him  plainly 


17*  CHAKACTERS   OF   PASSION,   KTa 

The  self-stime  snn,  that  shines  upon  hU  court 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  alike. 

Will't  please,  yon  Sir,  be  gone? 
I  told  yon  what  would  come  of  this.    Beseech  yoii« 
Of  your  own  state  take  care;  this  dream  of  min^~ 
Being  now  awake — I'll  queen  it  no  inch  farther, 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep. 

How  often  have  I  told  yon  'twould  be  thua 
How  often  said,  my  dignity  would  last 
But  till  'twere  known ! 

FLORIZEL. 

It  cannot  fail,  but  by 
The  violation  of  my  faith ;  and  then 
Let  nature  crush  the  sides  o'  the  earth  together 
And  mar  the  seeds  within !    Lift  up  thy  looks. 

*  *  *  *  m 

Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  glean' d!  for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 
The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas  hide 
In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I  break  my  oath 
To  thee,  my  fair  beloved  I 

Perdita  has  another  characteristic,  which  lends 
to  the  poetical  delicacy  of  the  delineation  a  certain 
strength  and  moral  elevation,  which  is  peculiarly 
striking.  It  is  that  sense  of  truth  and  rectitude, 
that  upright  simplicity  of  mind,  which  disdains  all 
crooked  and  indirect  means,  which  would  not  stoop 
for  an  instant  to  dissemblance,  and  is  mingled  with 
B  noble  confidence  in  her  love  and  in  her  lover 
In  this  spirit  is  her  answer  to  Camilla,  who  sayt. 
voartier  like,— 


P£RDITA.  17? 

Besides,  you  know 
Prosperity's  the  very  bond  of  love; 
Whose  fresh  complexion,  and  whose  heart  to)i;«llier 
Affliction  alters. 

To  which  she  replies, — 

One  of  these  is  true; 
I  think,  aflfliction  may  subdue  the  cheek. 
But  not  take"  in  the  mind. 

In  that  elegant  scene  where  she  receives  the 
guests  at  the  sheep-shearing,  and  distributes  the 
flowers,  there  is  in  the  full  flow  of  the  poetry,  a 
most  beautiful  and  striking  touch  of  individual 
character :  but  here  it  is  impossible  to  mutilate  the 

dialogue. 

Reverend  sirs, 
For  you  there's  rosemary  and  rue ;  these  keep 
Seeming  and  savor  all  the  winter  long; 
Grace  and  remembrance  be  to  you  both. 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing! 

FOLIXENES. 

Shepherdess, 
(A  fair  one  are  you,)  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

PEKDrrA. 
Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, 
Nor  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter,  the  fairest  flowers  o'  the  seasoa 
Are  our  carnations,  and  streaked  gilliflowers, 
Which  some  call  nature  s  bastards :  of  that  kind 
Onr  rustic  garden's  barren ;  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them 


ft  CHARACTERS   OF  PASSION,  KTa 

POUXENB8. 

Wherefore,  gentle  mftiden. 
Do  yot.  ueglect  them  ? 

FERDITA. 

For  I  have  heard  it  said. 
There  is  an  art,  which  in  their  piedness,  shara* 
With  great  creating  nature. 

FOLIXENES. 

Say  there  be; 
Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean 
Bnt  nature  makes  that  mean ;  so  o'er  that  art 
Which,  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.   You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  maiTy 
A  gentle  scion  to  the  wildest  stock ; 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race.    This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature,  change  it  rather;  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

PEKDITA. 

So  it  is. 

FOLIXEXE8. 

Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gilliflowen, 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

FERDITA. 

I'll  not  put 
The  dibble  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them; 
No  more  than  were  I  painted,  I  would  wish 
This  youth  should  say  'twere  well. 

It  has  been  well  remarked  of  this  passage,  thai 
Perdita  does  not  attempt  to  answer  the  reasoninf 


179 


if  Polixenes :  she  gives  up  the  argument,  but, 
woman-like,  retains  her  own  opinion,  or  rather,  her 
sense  of  right,  unshaken  by  his  sophistry.  She 
goes  on  in  a  strain  of  poetry,  which  comes  over  the 
Boul  Uke  music  and  fragrance  mingled :  we  seem  to 
inhale  the  blended  odors  of  a  thousand  flowers,  till 
the  sense  faints  with  their  sweetness ;  and  she  con- 
cludes with  a  touch  of  passionate  sentiment,  which 
melts  into  the  very  heart : — 

0  Proserpina  1 
For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis'B  wagon !  daffodils. 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids ;  bold  oxlips,  and 
The  crown  imperial;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one !     0,  these  I  lack, 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and  my  sweet  friend 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

FLORIZEL. 

What !  like  a  corse  ? 

PERDITA. 

No,  like  a  bai&,  for  Love  to  lie  and  play  on; 
Not  like  a  corse :  or  if, — not  to  be  buried. 
But  quick,  and  in  mine  arms  I 

This  love  of  truth,  this  conscientumsness,  whirh 
bnus  80  distinct  a  feature  in  the  character  of  Per- 


180  CHAUACTKRS    OF    PASSION,    ETC. 

dita,  and  mingles  with  its  picturesque  delicacy  a 
certain  fii-mness  and  difrnity,  is  maintained  con- 
iistently  to  the  last.  When  the  two  lovers  fly 
together  from  Bohemia,  and  take  refuge  in  the 
court  of  Leontes,  the  real  father  of  Perdita,  Florizel 
presents  himself  before  the  king  with  a  feigned  tale, 
in  which  he  has  been  artfully  instructed  by  the  old 
counsellor  Camillo.  During  this  scene,  Perdita 
does  not  utter  a  word.  In  the  strait  in  which  they 
are  placed,  she  cannot  deny  the  story  which  Florizel 
relates — she  will  not  confirm  it  Her  silence,  in 
spite  of  all  the  compliments  and  greetings  of 
Leontes,  has  a  peculiar  and  characteristic  grace 
and,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  scene,  when  they  are 
betrayed,  the  truth  bursts  from  her  as  if  instinc- 
tively, and  she  exclaims,  with  emotion, — 

The  heavens  set  spies  upon  us — will  not  have 
Our  contract  celebrated. 

After  this  scene,  Perdita  says  vcrj'  little.  The 
liescription  of  her  grief,  while  listening  to  the  re- 
lation of  her  mother's  death, — 

"  One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  nil,  was,  when  at  tha 
relation  of  the  queen's  death,  with  the  manner  how  she 
eame  by  it,  how  attentiveness  wounded  her  daughter:  til 
from  one  sign  of  dolor  to  another,  she  did,  with  an  alas 
I  would  fain  say,  bleed  tears: " — 

her  deportment  too  as  she  stands  gazing  on  the 
statue  of  Ilermione,  fixed  in  wonder,  admiration 
Mid  sorrow,  as  if  she  too  were  marlde — 


18! 


0  royal  piece ! 
There's  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 
From  thy  admiruig  daughter  ta'en  the  spirits, 
Standing  like  stone  beside  thee ! 

»re  touches  of  character  conveyed  indirectly,  and 
which  serve  to  give  a  more  finished  effect  to  tUi» 
beautiful  picture. 


VIOLA. 

As  the  innate  dignity  of  Perdita  pierces  through 
her  rustic  disguise,  so  the  exquisite  refinement  of 
Viola  triumphs  over  her  masculine  attire.  Viola 
is,  perhaps,  in  a  degree  less  elevated  and  ideal 
than  Perdita,  but  with  a  touch  of  sentiment  more 
profound  and  heart-stirring ;  she  is  "  deep-learned 
in  the  lore  of  love," — at  least  theoretically, — and 
ipeaks  as  masterly  on  the  subject  as  Perdita  doe* 
t>r  flowers. 

DUKE. 

How  dost  thon  ike  this  tunet' 

VIOLA. 

It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  love  is  thron'd. 

And  again, 

If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame. 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  lif(»-» 
In  your  denial  1  would  find  no  sens*, 
I  would  not  understand  it. 


».S2  CHARACTERS    OF   PASSION,  KTC. 

«.UTIA. 

Why,  what  won)4  you  do? 


llake  me  a  wiUow  cabin  at  jinxr  g&te, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house; 
Write  loyal  cantons  *  of  contemned  love. 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  nlfjkL 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia !     0  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth. 
Bat  you  should  pity  me. 

OLIVIA. 

Ton  might  do  much. 

The  situation  and  the  character  of  Viola  hav« 
been  censured  for  their  want  of  consistency  and 
probability ;  it  is  therefore  worth  while  to  examine 
how  far  this  criticism  is  true.  As  for  her  situation 
in  the  drama,  (of  which  she  is  properly  the  heroine,) 
it  is  shortly  this.  She  is  shipwrecked  on  the  coast 
of  Dlyria :  she  is  alone  and  without  protection  in  a 
Btrange  country.  She  wishes  to  enter  into  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Countess  Olivia ;  but  she  is  assured  tnat 
this  is  impossible ;  "  for  the  lady  having  recently 
lost  an  only  and  beloved  brother,  has  abjured  the 
light  of  men,  has  shut  herself  up  in  her  palace,  and 
will  admit  no  kind  of  suit."  In  this  perplexity 
Viola  remembers  to  have  heard  her  father  speak 
with  praise  and  admiration  of  Orsino,  the  Duke  of 

*  L  e.  canxonSf  song* 


VIOLA.  18S 

lie  country ;  and  having  asceiloinud  that  he  is  not 
married,  and  that  therefore  his  court  is  not  a  proper 
Bsylum  for  her  in  her  feminine  character,  she  at- 
tires herself  in  the  disguise  of  a  page,  as  the  best 
protection  against  uncivil  conunents,  till  she  can 
gain  some  tidings  of  her  brother. 

If  we  carry  our  thoughts  back  to  a  romantic  and 
chivalrous  age,  there  is  surely  sufficient  probability 
here  for  all  the  purposes  of  poetry.  To  pursue  the 
lihread  of  Viola's  destiny ; — she  is  engaged  in  the 
service  of  the  Duke,  whom  she  finds  "  fancy-sick  " 
for  the  love  of  Olivia.  We  are  left  to  infer,  (for  so 
it  is  hinted  in  the  first  scene,)  that  this  Duke — who 
with  his  accomplishments,  and  his  personal  attrac- 
tions, his  taste  for  music,  his  chivalrous  tenderness, 
and  his  unrequited  love,  is  reaUy  a  very  fascinating 
and  poetical  personage,  though  a  little  passionate 
and  fantastic — had  already  made  some  impression 
on  Viola's  imagination ;  and  when  she  comes  to 
play  the  confidante,  and  to  be  loaded  with  favors 
and  kindness  in  her  assumed  character,  that  she 
should  be  touched  by  a  passion  made  up  of  pity, 
admiration,  gratitude,  and  tenderness,  does  not,  I 
think,  in  any  way  detract  from  the  genuine  sweet- 
ness and  delicacy  of  her  cheiracter,  for  "  she  never 
told  her  love." 

Now  all  this,  as  the  critic  wisely  observes,  may 
not  present  a  very  just  picture  of  life ;  and  it  may 
also  fail  to  impart  any  moral  lesson  for  the  especia. 
xtrof-t  of  well-bred  young  ladies  but  is  it  not  in 
trut}  and  in  nature  ?    Did  it  ever  fail  to  charm  oi 


184  CHARACTERS  OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

to  interest,  to  seize  on  the  coldest  fancy,  to  touch 
the  most  insensible  heart  ? 

Viola  then  is  the  chosen  faTorite  of  the  enamour- 
ed Duke,  and  becomes  his  messenger  to  Olivia,  and 
the  interpreter  of  his  sufferings  to  that  inaccessible 
beauty.  In  her  character  of  a  youthful  page,  she 
attracts  the  favor  of  Olivia,  and  excites  the  jealousy 
of  her  lord.  The  situation  is  critical  and  delicate 
but  how  exquisitely  is  the  character  of  Viola  fitted 
to  her  part,  carrying  her  through  the  ordeal  with 
all  the  inward  and  spiritual  grace  of  modesty. 
What  beautiful  propriety  in  the  distinction  drawn 
between  Roseilind  and  Viola !  The  wild  sweetness, 
the  frolic  hiunor  which  sports  free  and  unblamed 
amid  the  shades  of  Ardennes,  would  iU  become 
Viola,  whose  playfulness  is  assumed  as  part  of  her 
disguise  as  a  court-page,  and  is  guarded  by  the 
strictest  delicacy.  She  has  not,  like  Bosalind,  a 
saucy  enjoyment  in  her  own  incognito ;  her  disguise 
does  not  sit  so  easily  upon  her ;  her  heart  does  not 
beat  freely  under  it  As  in  the  old  ballad,  where 
"  Sweet  William "  is  detected  weeping  in  secret 
over  her  "  man's  array,"  *  so  in  Viola,  a  sweet  con- 
■ciousness  of  her  feminine  nature  is  for  ever  break* 
ing  through  her  masquerade : — 

And  on  her  che«k  Is  ready  with  a  blosh 
Modest  as  morning,  when  she  coldly  ejM 
The  youthful  Phoebus. 

*  Pwiej'*  Reliqnes,  rol.  iii. — Me  the  ballad  of  the  '  Lad;  tan 
mg  Benrlnc  Bfan." 


noLA.  18ft 

Slie  plays  her  part  well,  but  never  forgets  not 
fcllows  us  to  forget,  that  she  is  pUying  a  part 

OLIVIA. 

Are  you  a  comedian? 

VIOLA. 

No,  my  profound  heart!  and  yet  by  the  very  fanga  ti 
malice  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  I  play  1 

And  thus  she  comments  on  it : — 

Disguise,  I  see  thou  art  wickedness, 
Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much; 
How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper  false 
In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms ! 
Alas  I  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we. 

The  feminine  cowardice  of  Viola,  which  will  not 
allow  her  even  to  affect  a  courage  becoming  her 
attire,— her  horror  at  the  idea  of  drawing  a  sword, 
is  very  natural  and  characteristic ;  and  produces  a 
most  humorous  effect,  even  at  the  very  moment  it 
charms  and  interests  us. 

Contrasted  with  the  deep,  silent,  patient  love  of 
Viola  for  the  Duke,  we  have  the  lady-like  wilful- 
ness of  Olivia ;  and  her  sudden  passion,  or  rather 
fancy,  for  the  disguised  page,  takes  so  beauttfnl  a 
coloring  of  poetry  and  sentiment,  that  we  do  not 
think  her  forward.  Olivia  is  like  a  princess  of 
romance,  and  has  all  the  privileges  of  one  ;  she  is, 
like  Portia,  high  bom  and  high  bred,  mistress  over 
her  servants — but  not  like  Portia.  "  queen  o'er  her- 
•«»lf."  She  has  never  in  her  life  been  opposed ;  the 
fret  contradiction,  therefore,  rouses  all  the  woman 


186  CHARACTERS   OF   PA6SION,   ETC. 

io  her,  and  turns  a  caprice  into  a  headlong  pa» 
lion  ;  yet  she  apologizes  for  herself. 

I  have  said  too  much  onto  a  k<>art  of  stone, 
And  laid  mine  honor  too  unchary  out; 
There's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault; 
But  such  a  headstrong  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof! 

And  in  the  midst  of  her  self-abandonment,  never 
allows  us  to  contemn,  even  while  we  pity  her : — 

What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I'll  deny. 
That  honor,  saved,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

The  distance  of  rank  which  separates  the 
Countess  fktm  the  youthful  page — the  real  sex  oi' 
Viola — the  dignified  elegance  of  Olivia's  deport- 
ment, except  where  passion  gets  the  better  of  her 
pride — ^her  consistent  coldness  towards  the  Duke — 
the  description  of  that  "smooth,  discreet,  and 
stable  bearing"  vnth  which  she  rules  her  house- 
hold— her  generous  care  for  her  steward  Malvolio, 
in  the  midst  of  her  own  distress, — all  these  circum- 
stances raise  Olivia  in  our  fancy,  and  render  her 
caprice  for  the  page  a  source  of  amusement  and 
interest,  not  a  subject  of  reproach.  Twelfth  Night 
18  a  genuine  comedy ; — a  perpetual  spring  of  the 
gayest  and  the  sweetest  fancies.  In  artificial  so- 
ciety men  and  women  are  divided  into  castes  and 
classes,  and  it  is  rarely  that  extremes  in  character 
ir  manners  can  approximate.  To  blend  into  ont 
ksrmonious  picture  the  utmost  grace  and  refio» 


187 


ment  of  senviment,  and  the  l)roadest  effects  of 
humor;  the  most  poignant  wit,  and  the  most  in- 
dulgent benignity ; — in  short,  to  bring  before  us  in 
the  same  scene,  Viola  and  Olivia,  with  Malvolio 
and  Sir  Toby,  belonged  only  to  Nature  and  to 
Shakspeare. 

OPHELIA. 

A  woman's  affections,  however  strong,  are  senti- 
ments, when  they  run  smooth ;  and  become  pas- 
sions only  when  opposed. 

In  Juliet  and  Helena,  love  is  depicted  as  a  pas- 
sion, properly  so  called  ;  that  is,  a  natural  impulse, 
throbbing  in  the  heart's  blood,  and  mingling  with 
the  very  sources  of  life  ; — a  sentiment  more  or  less 
modified  by  the  imagination ;  a  strong  abiding 
principle  and  motive,  excited  by  resistance,  acting 
upon  the  will,  animating  all  the  other  faculties,  and 
again  influenced  by  them.  This  is  the  most  com- 
plex aspect  of  love,  and  in  these  two  characters,  it 
is  depicted  in  colors  at  once  the  most  various,  the 
most  intense,  and  the  most  brilliant. 

In  Viola  and  Perdita,  love,  being  less  complex, 
appears  more  refined,  more  a  sentiment  than  a 
uassion — a  compound  of  impulse  and  fancy,  while 
the  reflective  powers  and  moral  energies  are  more 
fointly  developed.  The  same  remark  applies  also 
■>  Julia  asd  Silvia,  in    the  Two  Gentlemen  of 


188  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

Verona,  and,  in  a  greater  degree,  to  Hermia  anrt 
Helena  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  In  the 
two  latter,  though  perfectly  discriminated,  love 
takes  the  visionary  fanciful  cast,  which  belongs  to 
the  whole  piece  ;  it  is  scarcely  a  passion  or  a  senti- 
•jient,  but  a  dreamy  enchantment,  a  reverie,  which 
a  fairy  spell  dissolves  or  fixes  at  pleasure. 

But  there  was  yet  another  possible  modification 
of  the  sentiment,  as  combined  with  female  nature ; 
and  this  Shakspeare  has  shown  to  us.  He  has  por- 
trayed two  beings,  in  whom  all  intellectual  and 
moral  energy  is  in  a  manner  latent,  if  existing ;  in 
whom  love  is  an  unconscious  impulse,  and  imagina- 
tion lends  the  external  charm  and  hue,  not  the  in< 
temal  power ;  in  whom  the  feminine  character  ap- 
pears resolved  into  its  very  elementary  principle* 
— as  modesty,  grace,*  tenderness.  Without  these, 
a  woman  is  no  woman,  but  a  thing  which,  luckily 
wants  a  name  yet ;  with  these,  though  every  othe? 
faculty  were  passive  or  deficient,  she  might  still  bo 
herself.  These  are  the  inherent  qualities  with 
which  God  sent  us  into  the  world :  they  may  bo 
perverted  by  a  bad  education — they  may  be  ob- 
scured by  harsh  and  evil  destinies — they  may  ha 
overpowered  by  the  development  of  some  particular 
mental  power,  the  predominance  of  some  passion 

*  By  this  word,  as  used  here,  I  would  be  undrrstood  to  niMS 
that  inexpressible  something  within  the  soul,  which  tends  to  th« 
|ood,  the  beautirul,  the  true,  and  4s  the  antipodes  to  the  vulgar 
the  yiolent,  and  the  fklse ; — that  which  we  see  diffused  exteruAUf 
»Ter  the  form  and  moTements,  where  there  is  perfe<  t  lunucenoi 
%Dd  unconsciousneM,  aa  In  children. 


OPHELIA.  18S 

•—but  they  are  never  wholly  crushed  out  of  tha 
woman's  soul,  while  it  retains  those  faculties  which 
render  it  responsible  to  its  Creator.  Shakspeare 
then  has  shown  us  that  these  elemental  feminine 
qualities,  modesty,  grace,  tenderness,  when  ex- 
panded under  genial  influences,  suffice  to  constitute 
a  perfect  and  happy  human  creature :  such  is  IVIi- 
randa.  When  thrown  alone  amid  harsh  and  ad> 
verse  destinies,  and  amid  the  trammels  and  corrup-  j 
tions  of  society,  without  energy  to  resist,  or  will  to 
act,  or  strength  to  endure,  the  end  must  needs  be 
desolation. 

OpheUa — poor  Ophelia  I  O  far  too  soft,  too 
good,  too  fair,  to  be  cast  among  the  briers  of  this 
working-day  world,  and  fall  and  bleed  upon  the 
thorns  of  life  1  What  shall  be  said  of  her  ?  for 
eloquence  is  mute  before  her  !  Like  a  strain  of  sad 
sweet  music  which  comes  floating  by  us  on  the 
wings  of  night  and  silence,  and  which  we  rather 
feel  than  hear — like  the  exhalation  of  the  violet 
dying  even  upon  the  sense  it  charms — like  the 
snow-flake  dissolved  in  air  before  it  has  caught  a 
Btain  of  earth — like  the  light  surf  severed  from  the 
billoAv,  which  a  breath  disperses — such  is  the  char- 
acter of  Ophelia  :  so  exquisitely  delicate,  it  seems 
as  if  a  touch  would  profane  it ;  so  sanctified  in  our 
thoughts  by  the  last  and  wo>st  of  human  woes,  that 
ife  scarcely  dare  to  consider  it  too  deeply.  The 
love  of  Ophelia,  which  she  never  once  confesses,  ia 
like  a  secret  which  we  have  stolen  from  her,  and 
which  ought  to  die  upon  our  hearts  as  upon  her 


190  CnARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   KTC. 

own.  Her  sorrows  ask  not  words  but  tears ;  and 
her  madness  has  precisely  the  saine  effect  that 
would  be  produced  by  the  spectacle  of  real  in* 
sanity,  if  brought  before  us :  we  feel  inclined  to 
turn  away,  and  veil  our  eyes  in  reverential  pity 
and  too  painful  sympathy. 

Beyond  every  character  that  Shakspeare  has 
drawn,  (Hamlet  alone  excepted,)  that  of  Ophelia 
makes  us  forget  the  poet  in  his  own  creation. 
Whenever  we  bring  her  to  mind,  it  is  with  the 
same  exclusive  sense  of  her  real  existence,  without 
reference  to  the  wondrous  power  which  called  her 
into  life.  The  effect  (and  what  an  effect !)  is  pro- 
duced by  means  so  simple,  by  strokes  so  few,  and 
so  unobtrusive,  that  we  take  no  thought  of  them. 
It  is  so  purely  natural  and  unsophisticated,  yet  so 
profound  in  its  pathos,  that,  as  Hazlitt  observes,  it 
takes  us  back  to  the  old  ballads ;  we  forget  that,  in 
its  perfect  artlessness,  it  ia  the  supreme  and  con- 
summate triumph  of  art. 

The  situation  of  Ophelia  in  the  story,*  is  that  of 
a  young  girl  who,  at  an  early  age,  is  brought  from 
A  life  of  privacy  into  the  circle  of  a  court — a  court 
•uch  as  we  read  of  in  those  early  times,  at  onoe 
rude,  magnificent,  and  corrupted.  She  is  placed 
immediately  about  the  person  of  the  queen,  and  ia 


•  •'.  «.  In  the  itory  of  the  drama:  for  In  the  original  "Historj 
ef  Amleth  the  Dane,"  from  which  Shakspeare  drew  his  materiaU 
there  is  a  woman  introduced  who  is  employed  as  an  instmmeia 
to  sednoe  Amletb,  I  nt  not  eren  the  germ  of  the  chaiaetM  « 


nVHELIA.  191 

spparently  her  favorite  attendant.  The  afTection 
of  the  wicked  queen  for  this  gentle  and  innocent 
creature,  is  one  of  those  beautiful  redeeming 
touches,  one  of  those  penetrating  glances  into 
the  secret  springs  of  natural  and  feminine  feeling 
which  we  find  only  in  Shakspeare.  Gertrude,  who 
b  not  so  wholly  abandoned  but  that  there  remalnn 
within  her  heart  some  sense  of  the  virtue  she  has 
forfeited,  seems  to  look  with  a  kind  yet  melancholy 
complacency  on  the  lovely  being  she  has  destined 
for  the  bride  of  her  son ;  and  the  scene  in  which 
Bhe  is  introduced  as  scattering  flowers  on  the  grave 
of  Ophelia,  is  one  of  those  effects  of  contrast  in 
poetry,  in  character  and  in  feeling,  at  once  natural 
and  unexpected ;  which  fill  the  eye,  and  make  the 
heart  swell  and  tremble  within  itself — like  the 
nightingales  singing  in  the  grove  of  the  Furies  in 
Sophocles.* 

Again,  in  the  father  of  Ophelia,  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlain Polonius — the  shrewd,  wary,  subtle,  pom- 
pous, garrulous  old  courtier — have  we  not  the  very 
man  who  would  send  his  son  into  the  world  to  see 
all,  learn  all  it  could  teach  of  good  and  evil,  but 
keep  his  only  daughter  as  far  as  possible  from 
every  taint  of  that  world  he  knew  so  well  ?  3o  that 
when  she  is  brought  to  the  court,  she  seems  in  her 
loveliness  and  perfect  purity,  like  a  seraph  that 
had  wandered  out  of  bounds,  and  yet  breathed  on 
earth  the  air  of  paradise.  AVhen  her  father  and 
her  brother  find  it  necessary  to  ware  her  simplicily, 
*  In  the  (Biipus  Ooloneiu 


192  CHARACTERS   OF  PASSION,   ETC. 

give  her  lessons  of  worldly  wisdcm,  and  instmct 
her  "  to  be  scanter  of  her  maiden  presence,"  for 
that  Hamlet's  vows  of  love  "but  breathe  like 
sanctified  and  pious  bonds,  the  better  to  beguile." 
we  feel  at  once  that  it  comes  too  late ;  for  from  the 
moment  she  appears  on  the  scene  amid  the  dark 
conflict  of  crime  anJ  vengeance,  and  supernatural 
terrors,  we  know  what  must  be  her  destiny.  Once, 
at  Murano,  I  saw  a  dove  caught  in  a  tempest ;  per- 
haps it  was  young,  and  either  lacked  strength  of 
wing  to  reach  its  home,  or  the  instinct  which 
teaches  to  shun  the  brooding  storm ;  but  so  it  was 
— and  I  watched  it,  pitying,  as  it  flitted,  poor  bird 
hither  and  thither,  with  its  silver  pinions  shining 
against  the  black  thunder-cloud,  till,  after  a  few 
giddy  whirls,  it  fell  blinded,  affrighted,  and  bewil- 
dered, into  the  turbid  wave  beneath,  and  was  swal- 
lowed up  forever.  It  reminded  me  tlien  of  the 
fate  of  Ophelia ;  and  now  when  I  think  of  her,  1 
see  again  before  me  that  poor  dove,  beating  with 
weary  wing,  bewildered  amid  the  storm.  It  is  the 
helplessness  of  Ophelia,  arising  merely  from  her 
sinocence,  and  pictured  without  any  indication  of 
weakness,  which  melts  us  with  such  profound  pity. 
6he  is  so  young,  that  neither  her  mind  nor  her  per- 
«on  have  attained  maturity ;  she  is  not  aware  of 
the  nature  of  her  own  feelings ;  they  are  prema- 
turely  developed  in  their  full  force  before  she  haa 
itrongth  to  bear  them ;  and  love  and  grief  togethei 
•^nd  and  shatter  the  frail  texture  of  her  existence 
ike  the  burning  fluid  poured  into  a  crystal  vastv 


OPHKLIA.  198 

She  says  very  liitlo,  and  what,  slie  does  say  seems 
rather  intended  to  hide  than  to  reveal  the  emotions 
of  her  heart ;  yet  in  those  few  words  we  are  made 
as  perfectly  acquainted  with  her  character,  and 
with  what  is  passing  in  her  mind,  as  if  she  had 
thrown  forth  her  soul  with  all  the  glowing  eloquence 
of  Juliet.  Passion  ■with  Juliet  seems  innate,  a  par* 
of  her  being,  "  as  dwells  the  gathered  lightning  in 
the  cloud  ; "  and  we  never  fancy  her  but  with  the 
dark  splendid  eyes  and  Titian-like  complexion  of 
the  south.  ^Vliile  in  Ophelia  we  recognize  as  dis- 
tinctly the  pensive,  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  daughter 
of  the  north,  whose  heart  seems  to  vibrate  to  the 
passion  she  has  inspired,  more  conscious  of  being 
loved  than  of  loving ;  and  yet,  alas  !  lo^ang  in  the 
silent  depths  of  her  young  heart  far  more  than  she 
is  loved. 

"When  her  brother  warns  her  against  Hamlet'i 
importunities — 

For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  favor, 
Hold  it  a  fashion,  and  a  toy  of  blood, 
A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature, 
Forward  not  permanent,  sweet  not  lasting, 
The  perfume  and  the  suppliance  of  a  minute — 
No  more ! 

ite  replies  with  a  kind  of  half  conscJouBncw  '■ 

No  more  but  sc  ? 

LAERTES. 

Think  i.  do  more. 
1.S 


194  CnAKACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

He  concludes  his  admonitJon  with  that  mofll 
beautiful  passage,  in  which  the  soundest  sense,  th* 
most  excellent  advice,  is  conveyed  in  a  strain  of 
the  most  exquisite  poetry. 

The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough, 
K  she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon : 
Virtue  itself  'scapes  not  calumnious  strokes. 
The  canker  galls  the  infants  of  the  spring 
Too  oft  before  their  buttons  be  disclos'd: 
And  in  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth, 
Contagious  blastments  are  most  imminent. 

She  answers  with  the  same  modesty,  yet  with  • 
kind  of  involuntary  avowal,  that  his  fears  are  no< 
altogether  without  cause  : — 

I  shall  the  effect  of  this  good  lesson  keep 

As  watchman  to  my  heart.    But,  good  my  brother, 

Do  not,  as  some  ungracious  pastors  do, 

Show  me  the  steep  and  thorny  way  to  heaven; 

Whilst,  like  the  pufiTd  and  reckless  libertine. 

Himself  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  treads, 

And  recks  not  his  own  read.* 

When  her  father,  immediately  afterwards,  cate- 
chizes her  on  the  same  subject,  he  extorts  from  her, 
in  short  sentences,  uttered  with  bashful  reluctance, 
the  confession  of  Hamlet's  love  for  her,  but  no* 
a  word  of  her  love  for  him.  The  whole  scene 
is  managed  with  inexpressible  delicacy:  it  it 
one  of  those  instances,  common  in  Shakspearev 
in  which  we   are   allowed   to   perceive   what  is 

"  And  reclui  not  his  ows  nad,"  t.  e.  heeds  not  hU  own 


OPHELIA.  19& 

passing  in  tlie  mind  of  a  person,  witliout  any  cou- 
iciousness  on  their  part.  Only  Ophelia  herself  ia 
unaware  that  while  she  ia  admitting  the  extent  of 
Hamlet's  courtship,  she  is  also  betraying  how  deep 
is  the  impression  it  has  made,  how  entire  the  lov« 
with  which  it  is  returned. 

POLONIUS. 

What  is  between  you?  give  me  up  the  truth! 

OPHELIA. 

He  hath,  my  lord,  of  late,  made  many  tenders 
Of  his  affection  to  me. 

POIiONIUS. 

Affection !  poh !  you  speak  like  a  green  girl, 
Unsifted  in  such  perilous  circumstances. 
Do  you  believe  his  tenders,  as  you  call  them? 

OPHELIA. 

I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  what  I  should  think. 

POLONIUS. 

Marry,  I'll  teach  you:  think  yourself  a  baby; 
That  you  have  taken  these  tenders  for  true  pay 
Which  are  not  sterling.   Tender  yourself  more  doa/Ij 
Or  (not  to  crack  the  wind  of  the  poor  phrase, 
Wronging  it  thus)  you'll  tender  me  a  fool. 

OPHELIA. 

My  lord,  he  hath  importun'd  me  with  lore 
In  honorable  fashion. 

POLOKIU8. 

kjt  fiuhion  yon  may  call  it;  go  to,  go  to 


If6  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   B'rC. 

OPHELIA. 
And  hath  given  coontenance  to  hi&  Bpeech,  ray  lordi 
With  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven. 

roLomus. 
Ay,  springes  to  catch  woodcocks. 
This  is  for  all: 
would  not,  in  plain  terms,  from  this  time  forth 
Have  you  so  slander  any  moment's  leisure 
As  to  give  words  or  talk  with  the  Lord  Hamlet, 
Look  to't,  I  charge  you :  come  your  ways. 

OPHEUA. 

I  shall  obey,  my  lord. 

Besides  its  intrinsic  loveliness,  the  character  of 
Ophelia  has  a  relative  beauty  and  delicacy  when 
considered  in  relation  to  that  of  Hamlet,  which  if 
the  delineation  of  a  man  of  genius  in  contest  with 
the  [)owers  of  this  world.  The  weakness  of  volition, 
the  instability  of  purpose,  the  contemplative  sen- 
nbility,  the  subtlety  of  thought,  always  shrinking 
from  action,  and  always  occupied  in  "  thinking  too 
precisely  on  the  event,"  united  to  immense  intel- 
lectual power,  render  him  unspeakably  interesting : 
and  yet  I  doubt  whether  any  woman,  who  would 
have  been  capable  of  understanding  and  appreciat- 
ng  Huch  a  man,  would  have  passionately  loved  him. 
Let  us  for  a  moment  imagine  any  one  of  Shak- 
ipcare's  most  beautiful  and  striking  female  char* 
acters  in  immediate  connection  with  Hamlet  Th« 
gentle  Desdemona  would  never  have  despatched 
ber  household  cares  in  haste,  to  listen  to  his  philo 


OPHELIA.  191 

tophica't  (specalationS)  his  dark  conflicts  with  tin 
0wn  spirit  tjuch  a  woman  as  Portia  would  have 
■tudied  him ;  Juliet  would  have  pitied  him  ;  Rosa- 
lind would  have  turned  him  over  with  a  smile  to 
the  melancholy  Jacques ;  Beatrice  would  have 
laughed  at  him  outright;  Isabel  would  have  rea- 
Boned  with  him ;  Miranda  could  but  have  won- 
dered at  him :  but  Ophelia  loves  him.  Ophelia, 
the  young,  fair,  inexperienced  girl,  facile  to 
every  impression,  fond  in  her  simplicity,  and  cred- 
ulous in  her  innocence,  loves  Hamlet;  not  from 
what  he  is  in  himself,  but  for  that  which  appears 
to  her — the  gentle,  accompHshed  prince,  upon 
whom  she  has  been  accustomed  to  see  all  eyes 
fixed  in  hope  and  admiration,  "the  expectancy 
and  rose  of  the  fair  state,"  the  star  of  the  court  in 
which  she  moves,  the  first 'who  has  ever  whispered 
Boft  vows  in  her  ear:  and  what  can  be  more 
natural  ? 

But  it  is  not  singular,  that  while  no  one  enter- 
tains a  doubt  of  Ophelia's  love  for  Hamlet — though 
never  once  expressed  by  herself,  or  asserted  by 
others,  in  the  whole  course  of  the  drama — yet  it  ii 
a  subject  of  dispute  whether  Hamlet  loves  Ophelia, 
though  she  herself  allows  that  he  had  importuned 
her  with  love,  and  "  had  given  countenance  to  hil 
suit  with  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven  ; "  al- 
though in  the  letter  which  Polonius  intercepted, 
Hamlet  declares  that  he  loves  her  "  best,  O  most 
oest  I " — though  he  asserts  himself,  with  the  'wildest 
tehemence, — 


198  CHAKACTERS  OF   PASSION,   %l</. 

I  lov'd  Ophelia;  forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  loTe, 
Make  up  my  sum: 

—still  I  have  heard  the  question  cauvassed ;  I  hav« 
even  heard  it  denied  that  Hamlet  did  love  (?phelia. 
The  author  of  the  finest  remarks  I  have  yet  seen 
on  the  play  and  character  of  Hamlet,  leans  to  thia 
opinion.  As  the  observations  I  allude  to  are  con- 
tained in  a  periodical  publication,  and  may  not  be 
at  hand  for  immediate  reference,  I  shall  indulge 
myself  (and  the  reader  no  less)  by  quoting  the 
opening  paragraphs  of  this  noble  piece  of  criticism, 
upon  the  principle,  and  for  the  reason  I  have  al- 
ready stated  in  the  introduction. 

"  We  take  up  a  play,  and  ideas  come  rolling  in 
upon  us,  like  waves  impelled  by  a  strong  wind. 
There  is  in  the  ebb  and 'flow  of  Shakspeare's  soul 
all  the  grandeur  of  a  mighty  operation  of  nature ; 
and  when  we  think  or  speak  of  him,  it  should  be 
with  humility  where  we  do  not  understand,  and  a 
conviction  that  it  is  rather  to  the  narrowness  of  oui 
own  mind  than  to  any  failing  in  the  art  of  the  great 
magician,  that  we  ought  to  attribute  any  sense  of 
weakness,  which  may  assail  as  during  the  conteni' 
plation  of  his  created  worlds. 

"  Shakspeare  himself,  had  he  even  been  as  great 
a  critic  as  a  poet,  could  not  have  written  a  regular 
dissertation  upon  Hamlet  So  ideal,  and  yet  so 
real  an  existence,  could  have  been  shadowed  ou 
anly  iu  the  colors  of  poetry.  When  a  character 
ieals  solely  or  chiefly  with  this  world  iand  its  events 


ujfhelia.  199 

when  it  acts  and  is  acted  upon  by  objects  that  have 
%  palpable  existence,  we  see  it  distinctly,  as  if  it 
were  cast  in  a  material  mould,  as  if  it  partook  of 
the  fixed  and  settled  lineaments  of  the  things  on 
which  it  lavishes  its  sensibilities  and  its  passions. 
We  sec  in  such  cases  the  vision  of  an  individual 
soul,  as  Tve  see  the  vision  of  an  individual  counte- 
nance. We  can  describe  both,  and  can  let  a 
Btrangor  into  our  knowledge.  But  how  tell  in 
words,  so  pure,  so  fine,  so  ideal  an  abstraction  as 
Hamlet  ?  We  can,  indeed,  figure  to  ourselves  gen- 
erally his  princely  form,  that  outshone  all  others  in 
manly  beauty,  and  adorn  it  with  the  consummation 
of  all  liberal  accomplishment.  We  can  behold  in 
every  look  every  gesture,  every  motion,  the  future 
king,— 

The  courtier's,  soldier's,  scholar's  eye,  tongue,  sword, 
Th'  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  ttate ; 
The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form, 
Th'  observ'd  of  all  observers. 

"  But  when  we  would  penet/ate  into  his  spint, 
meditate  on  those  things  on  which  he  meditates,  ac- 
company him  even  unto  the  brink  of  eternity, 
lluctuate  with  him  on  the  ghastly  sea  of  despair, 
»oar  with  him  into  the  purest  and  serenest  regioni 
of  himian  thought,  feel  with  him  the  curse  of  be« 
holding  iniquity,  and  the  troubled  delight  of  think- 
ing on  innocence,  and  gentleness,  and  beauty 
V>me  with  him  from  all  the  glorious  dreams  cher- 
4hed  by  a  noble  spirit  in  the  halls  of  wisuom  and 


200  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

philosophy,  of  a  sudden  into  the  gloomy  courts  of 
mn,  and  incest,  and  murder ;  shudder  with  him 
over  the  broken  and  shattered  fragments  of  all  tbt 
fairest  creations  of  his  fancy, — be  borne  with  him 
at  once,  from  calm,  and  lofty,  and  delighted  specu- 
lations, into  the  very  heart  of  fear,  and  horror,  and 
tribulations, — have  the  agonies  and  the  guilt  of  otu 
mortal  world  brought  into  immediate  contact  with 
the  world  beyond  the  grave,  and  the  influence  of 
an  awful  shadow  hanging  forever  on  our  thoughts, — 
be  present  at  a  fearful  combat  between  all  the  stir- 
red-up  passions  of  humanity  in  the  soul  of  man,  a 
combat  in  which  one  and  all  of  these  passions  are 
alternately  victorious  and  overcome ;  I  say,  that 
when  we  are  thus  placed  and  acted  upon,  how  is  it 
possible  to  draw  a  character  of  this  sublime  drama, 
or  of  the  mysterious  being  who  is  its  moving  spirit  ? 
In  him,  his  character  and  situation,  there  is  a  con- 
centration of  all  the  interests  that  belong  to  human- 
ity. There  is  scarcely  a  trait  of  frailty  or  of  gran- 
deur, which  may  have  endeared  to  us  our  most 
beloved  friends  in  real  life,  that  is  not  to  be  foimd 
in  Hamlet.  Undoubtedly  Shakspeare  loved  him 
beyond  all  his  other  creations.  Soon  as  he  appears 
on  the  stage  we  are  satisfied  :  when  absent  we  long 
for  his  return.  This  is  the  only  play  which  exista 
almost  filtogether  in  the  character  of  one  singla 
person.  Who  ever  knew  a  Hamlet  in  real  life 
yet  who,  ideal  as  the  character  ij,  feels  not  ita 
reality  ?  This  is  the  wonder.  We  love  him  not, 
vn  think  of  him,  not  because  he  is  witty,  becauM 


20\ 


be  was  nielanch  >ly,  because  lie  was  filial ;  but  we 
love  hiia  because  he  existed,  and  was  himself.  This 
IB  the  sum  total  of  the  impression.  J  h^lieve  that, 
of  every  other  characte»  either  in  tragic  or  epic 
poetry,  the  story  makes  part  of  the  corception  ;  but 
of  Hamlet,  the  deep  and  permanent  interest  Is  the 
conception  of  himself.  This  seems  to  belong,  not 
to  the  character  being  more  perfectly  drawn,  but 
to  there  being  a  more  intense  conception  of  individ- 
ual human  life  than  perhaps  any  other  human 
composition.  Here  is  a  being  with  springs  of 
thought,  and  feeling,  and  action,  deeper  than  we 
can  search.  These  springs  rise  from  an  unknown 
depth,  and  In  that  depth  there  seems  to  be  a  one- 
ness of  being  which  we  cannot  distinctly  behold, 
but  which  we  believe  to  be  there ;  and  thus  irrec- 
oncilable circumstances,  floating  on  the  surface  of 
his  actions,  have  not  the  effect  of  making  us  doubt 
the  truth  of  the  general  picture."  * 

This  is  all  most  admirable,  most  eloquent,  most 
true !  but  the  critic  subsequently  declares,  that 
"  there  is  nothing  in  Ophelia  which  could  make 
her  the  object  of  an  engrossing  passion  to  so  ma- 
jestic a  spirit  as  Hamlet." 

Now,  though  It  be  with  reluctance,  and  ever. 
2onsiderable  mistrust  of  myself,  that  I  differ  from 
ft  critic  who  can  thus  feel  and  write,  I  do  not  think 
10 : — I  do  think,  with  submission,  that  the  love  of 
tiamlet  for  Ophelia  Is  deep.  Is  real,  and  Is  precisell 

*  Blackwood'f  Magazine,  toi  u. 


102  CHAKACTER8   OF   PASSION,   KTO. 

the  kiud  of  love  which   such  a   man  as  Hamlet 
would  feel  for  such  a  woman  as  Ophelia. 

When  the  heathen  would  represent  their  JovA 
as  clothed  in  all  his  Olympian  terrors,  they  mounted 
him  on  the  back  of  an  eagle,  and  armed  him  with 
the  lightnings ;  but  when  in  Holy  Writ  the  Su- 
preme Being  is  described  as  coming  in  his  glory, 
He  is  upborne  on  the  wings  of  cherubim,  and  hia 
emblem  is  the  dove.  Even  so  our  blessed  religion, 
which  has  revealed  deeper  mysteries  in  the  humar 
Boul  than  ever  were  dreamt  of  by  philosophy  till 
she  went  hand-in-hand  with  faith,  has  taught  us  to 
pay  that  worship  to  the  symbols  of  purity  and  in- 
nocence, which  in  darker  times  was  paid  to  the 
manifestations  of  power :  and  therefore  do  I  think 
that  the  mighty  intellect,  the  capacious,  soaring, 
penetrating  genius  of  Hamlet  may  be  represented, 
without  detracting  from  its  grandeur,  as  reposing 
upon  the  tender  virgin  innocence  of  Ophelia,  with 
all  that  deep  delight  with  which  a  superior  nature 
contemplates  the  goodness  which  is  at  once  perfect 
in  itself,  and  of  itself  unconscious.  That  Hamlet 
regards  Ophelia  with  this  kind  of  tenderness, — ^that 
he  loves  her  with  a  love  as  intense  as  can  belong  to 
%  nature  in  which  there  is,  (I  think,)  much  more  of 
ix)ntemplation  and  sensibility  than  action  or  pa»- 
rion — is  the  feeUng  and  conviction  with  which 
have  always  read  the  play  of  Hamlet 

As  to  whether  the  mind  of  Hamlet  be,  or  be  not| 
touched  with  madness — this  is  another  point  at 
ksue  among  critics,  philosophers,  ay,  and  jibjwi 


OPHELIA.  20A 

tians.  To  me  it  seems  that  he  is  not  so  far  disor- 
dered as  to  cease  to  be  a  responsible  human  being 
^that  were  too  pitiable :  but  rather  that  his  mind 
is  shaken  from  its  equilibrium,  and  bewildered  by 
the  horrors  of  his  situation — horrors  which  his  finr 
and  subtle  intellect,  his  strong  imagination,  and  hia 
tendency  tc  melancholy,  at  once  exaggerate,  and 
take  from  him  the  power  either  to  endure,  or  "  by 
opposing,  end  them."  We  do  not  see  him  as  a 
lover,  nor  as  Ophelia  first  beheld  him ;  for  the  days 
when  he  importuned  her  with  love  were  before  the 
opening  of  the  drama — before  his  father's  spirit  re- 
visited the  earth ;  but  we  behold  him  at  once  in  a 
sea  of  troubles,  of  perplexities,  of  agonies,  of  ter- 
rors. Without  remorse,  he  endures  all  its  horrors ; 
without  guilt,  he  endures  all  its  shame.  A  loathing 
of  the  crime  he  is  called  on  to  revenge,  which  re- 
venge is  again  abhorrent  to  his  nature,  has  set  him 
at  strife  with  himself;  the  supernatural  visitation 
has  perturbed  his  soul  to  its  inmost  depths;  all 
things  else,  all  interests,  all  hopes,  all  affections, 
appear  as  futile,  when  the  majestic  shadow  comea 
lamenting  from  its  place  of  torment  "  to  shake  him 
with  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  his  soul  I" . 
His  love  for  Ophelia  is  then  ranked  by  himself 
among  those  trivial,  fond  records  which  he  has 
deeply  sworn  to  erase  from  his  heart  and  br^. 
He  has  no  thought  to  link  his  temole  destiny  witb 
hers :  he  cannot  marry  her :  he  cannot  reveal  to 
her,  young,  gentle,  innocent  as  she  is,  the  terrific 
influences  which  have  changed  the  whole  current  * 


204  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

of  Lis  life  and  purposes.  In  his  distraction  lie  OTer 
acts  the  painful  part  to  which  he  had  tasked  him* 
lelf ;  he  is  like  that  judge  of  the  Areopagus,  who 
being  occupied,  with  graver  matters,  flung  from 
him  the  little  bird  which  had  sought  refuge  in  hia 
bosom,  and  with  such  angry  violence,  that  unwit* 
tingly  he  killed  it. 

In  the  scene  with  Hamlet,*  in  which  he  madly 
outrages  her  and  upbraids  himself,  Ophelia  sayt 
very  little :  there  are  two  short  sentences  in  which 
ihe  replies  to  his  wild,  abrupt  discourse : — 

BIMLET. 

I  did  love  you  once. 

OPHELIA. 

Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  to. 

HAMLET. 

Yon  should  not  have  believed  me :  for  virtue  cannot  m 
iiioocolate  our  old  stock,  but  we  shall  relish  of  it.  I  loved 
you  not. 

OPHELIA. 

I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Those  who  ever  heard  Mrs.  Siddons  read  the  play 
of  Hamlet,  cannot  forget  the  world  of  meaning,  of 
love,  of  sorrow,  of  despair,  conveyed  in  these  two 
simple  phrases.  Here,  and  in  the  soliloquy  after 
wards,  where  she  says, — 

And  I  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 
That  sucked  the  honey  of  his  music  vows, 

KTO  the  only  allusions  to  herself  and  her  own  iee< 

•  Aet  in.  MeeM  1. 


OPHELIA.  206 

fligB  in  the  course  of  the  play;  and  these,  uttered 
almost  without  consciousness  on  her  own  part,  con- 
tain the  revelation  of  a  life  of  love,  and  disclose 
the  secret  burthen  of  a  heart  bursting  with  its  owr 
anuttered  grief.  She  believes  Hamlet  crazed ;  she 
'is  repulsed,  she  is  forsaken,  she  is  outraged,  where 
»be  had  bes'owed  her  young  heart,  with  all  its  hopes 
and  wishes ;  her  father  is  slain  by  the  hand  of  her 
lover,  as  it  is  supposed,  in  a  paroxysm  of  insanity : 
she  is  entangled  inextricably  in  a  web  of  horrors 
which  she  cannot  even  comprehend,  and  the  result 
seems  inevitable. 

Of  her  subsequent  madness,  what  can  be  said  V 
^Vhat  an  affecting — what  an  astonishing  picture  of 
a  mind  utterly,  hopelessly  wrecked ! — past  hope — 
past  cure !  There  is  the  frenzy  of  excited  passion 
— there  is  the  madness  caused  by  intense  and  con- 
tinued thought — there  is  the  delirium  of  fevered 
nerves;  but  Ophelia's  madness  is  distinct  from 
these :  it  is  not  the  suspension,  but  the  utter  destruc- 
tion of  the  reasoning  powers ;  it  is  the  total  imbecil- 
ity which,  as  medical  people  well  know,  frequently 
follows  some  terrible  shock  to  the  spirits.  Con- 
stan  3e  is  frantic  ;  Lear  is  mad ;  Ophelia  is  insane. 
Her  sweet  mind  lies  in  fragments  before  us — a  piti- 
ful spectacle !  Her  wild,  rambling  fancies ;  her 
aimless,  broken  speeches;  her  quick  transitions 
from  gayety  to  sadness — each  equally  purposeless 
and  causeless ;  her  snatches  of  old  ballads,  such  as 
perhaps  her  nurse  sunc  her  to  sleep  with  in  her  in- 
i^ncv — are  all  so  true  to  the  life,  that  we  forget  ta 


106  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

wonder,  and  can  only  weep.  It  belonged  to  Shak 
ipeare  alone  so  to  temper  such  a  picture  that  wt 
ean  endure  to  dwell  upon  it : — 

Thought  and  afBiction,  passion,  hell  itself, 
She  turns  to  favor  and  to  prettiness. 

That  in  her  madness  she  should  exchange  her 
bashful  silence  for  empty  babbling,  her  sweet 
maidenly  demeanor  for  the  impatient  restlessneaa 
that  spurns  at  straws,  and  say  and  sing  precisely 
what  she  never  would  or  could  have  uttered  had 
she  been  in  possession  of  her  reason,  is  so  far  from 
being  an  impropriety,  that  it  is  an  additional  stroke 
of  nature.  It  is  one  of  the  symptoms  of  this  speciea 
of  insanity,  as  we  are  assured  by  physicians.  I 
have  myself  known  one  instance  in  the  case  of  a 
young  Quaker  girl,  whose  character  resembled  that 
of  Ophelia,  and  whose  malady  arose  from  a  similar 
cause. 

The  whole  action  of  this  play  sweeps  past  va 
like  a  torrent,  which  hurries  along  in  its  dark  and 
resistless  course  all  the  personages  of  the  drama 
towards  a  catastrophe  that  is  not  brought  about  bv 
human  will,  but  seems  like  an  abyss  ready  dug  to 
receive  them,  where  the  good  and  the  wicked  are 
whelmed  together.*  As  the  character  of  Hamlet 
bag  been  compared,  or  rather  contrasted,  with  the 
Greek  Orestes,  being  like  him,  called  on  to  avenge 
a  crime  by  a  crime,  tormented  by  remorseful  doubti^ 
and  pursued  by  distraction,  so,  to  me,  the  character 

•  Goeth*.    See  the  analysis  of  Hamlet  in  WUhelm  Melstar. 


MIRANDA.  2V; 

of  Ophelia  bears  a  certain  relation  to  that  of  tho 
Greek  Iphigenia,*  Avith  the  same  strong  distinction 
between  the  classical  and  the  romantic  conceptioD 
of  the  portrait.  Iphigenia  led  forth  to  sacrifice, 
with  her  unresisting  tenderness,  her  mournful 
sweetness,  her  virgin  innocence,  is  doomed  to  perish 
by  that  relentless  power,  which  has  linked  her 
destiny  with  crimes  and  contests,  in  which  she  haa 
no  part  but  as  a  sufferer;  and  even  so,  poor 
Ophelia,  "  divided  from  herself  and  her  fair  judg- 
ment," appears  here  like  a  spotless  victim  offered 
up  to  the  mysterious  and  inexorable  fates. 

"  For  it  is  the  property  of  crime  to  extend  its 
mischiefs  over  innocence,  as  it  is  of  virtue  to  ex- 
tend its  blessings  over  many  that  deserve  them 
not,  while  frequently  the  author  of  one  or  the  other 
b  not,  as  far  as  we  can  see,  either  punbhed  oi 
rewarded."!    But  there's  a  heaven  above  us  I 


MIRANDA. 

We  might  have  deemed  it  impossible  to  go  beyond 
Viola,  Perdita,  and  Ophelia,  as  pictures  of  feminijD.e 
Deauty ;  to  exceed  the  one  in  tender  delicacy,  th« 
»ther  in  ideal  gra*"?,  and  the  last  in  simplicity, — ■ 
£  Shakspeare  had  not  done  this;  and  he  aIon« 

*  The  Iphigenia  in  Aolis  of  Enripidea.  f  OoettM 


208  CHABACrERS  OF   PASSIOV.    £TO. 

ix>uld  have  done  it  Had  he  never  created  a 
Miranda,  we  should  never  have  been  made  to  feel 
how  completely  the  purely  natural  and  the  purely 
ideal  can  blend  into  each  other. 

The  character  of  Miranda  resolves  itself  into 
the  very  elements  of  womanhood.  She  is  beauti- 
ful, modest,  and  tender,  and  she  is  these  only ;  they 
comprise  her  whole  being,  external  and  intemaL 
She  is  so  perfectly  unsophisticated,  so  delicately 
refined,  that  she  is  all  but  ethereal.  Let  us  imagine 
any  other  woman  placed  beside  Miranda — even 
one  of  Shakspeare's  own  loveliest  and  sweetest 
creations — there  is  not  one  of  them  that  could  sus- 
tain the  comparison  for  a  moment;  not  one  that 
would  not  appear  somewhat  coarse  or  artificial  when 
brought  into  immediate  contact  with  this  pure  child 
of  nature,  this  "  Eve  of  an  enchanted  Paradise." 

"What,  then,  has  Shakspeare  done  ? — "  0  wondrous 
skill  and  sweet  wit  of  the  man  ! " — he  has  removed 
Miranda  far  from  all  comparison  with  her  own  sex ; 
he  has  placed  her  between  the  demi-demon  of 
earth  and  the  delicate  spirit  of  air.  The  next  step 
is  into  the  ideal  and  supernatural ;  and  the  only 
being  who  approaches  ACranda,  with  whom  she  can 
be  contrasted,  is  Ariel.  Beside  the  subtle  essence 
of  this  ethereal  sprite,  this  creature  of  elemental 
light  and  air,  that  "  ran  upon  the  winds,  rodfc  the 
curl'd  clouds,  and  in  the  colors  of  the  rainboii 
lived,"  ]VIiranda  herself  appears  a  palpable  reality 
ft  woman,  "  breathing  thoughtful  breath,"  a  woman 
walking  the  earth  in  her  mortal  loveliness,  witJh  a 


MIRAKDA.  201 

heart  as  frail-strung,  as  peissIon-toucLiid,  as  eveir 
fluttered  in  a  female  bosom. 

I  have  said  that  Miranda  possesses  merely  the 
elementary  attributes  of  womanhood,  but  each  of 
these  stand  in  her  with  a  distinct  and  peculiar 
grace.  She  resembles  nothing  upon  earth :,  but  do 
we  therefore  compare  her,  in  our  own  minds,  with 
any  of  those  fabled  beings  with  which  the  fancy 
of  ancient  poets  peopled  the  forest  depths,  the 
fountain  or  the  ocean  V — oread  or  dryad  fleet,  sea- 
maid, or  naiad  of  the  stream  ?  We  cannot  think 
of  them  together.  Miranda  is  a  consistent,  natural, 
human  being.  Our  impression  of  her  nymph-like 
beauty,  her  peerless  grace,  and  purity  of  soul,  has 
a  distinct  and  individual  character.  Not  only  is 
she  exquisitely  lovely,  being  what  she  is,  but  we  are 
made  to  feel  that  she  could  not  possibly  be  other- 
wise than  £is  she  is  portrayed.  She  has  never  be- 
held one  of  her  own  sex ;  she  has  never  caught 
from  society  one  imitated  or  artificial  grace.  The 
impulses  which  have  come  to  her,  in  her  enchanted 
solitude,  are  of  heaven  and  nature,  not  of  the 
world  and  its  vanities.  She  has  sprung  up  into 
beauty  beneath  the  eye  of  her  father,  the  princely 
magician ;  her  companions  have  been  the  rock* 
and  woods,  the  many-shaped,  many-tinted  clouds, 
and  the  silent  stars ;  her  plaj-mates  the  ocean  bil- 
lows, that  stooped  their  foamj^  crests,  and  ran  rip- 
jJing  ^o  kiss  her  feet.  Ariel  and  his  attendant 
•prites  hovered  over  her  head,  ministered  duteoui 
to  her  every  wish  and  preserted  before  bftf 
u 


110  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

pageants  of  beauty  and  grandeur.  The  very  aix 
made  vocal  by  her  father's  art,  floated  in  mnac 
around  her.  If  we  can  presuppose  such  a  situation 
with  all  its  circumstances,  do  we  not  behold  in  the 
character  of  Miranda  not  only  the  credible,  but 
the  natural,  the  necessary  results  of  such  a  sita»- 
bon  ?  She  retains  her  woman's  heart,  for  that  if 
unalterable  and  inalienable,  as  a  part  of  her  being ; 
but  her  deportment,  her  looks,  her  language,  her 
thoughts — all  these,  from  the  supernatural  and 
poetical  circumstances  around  her,  assume  a  cast 
of  the  pure  ideal ;  and  to  us,  who  are  in  the  secret 
of  her  human  and  pitying  nature,  nothing  ca^  be 
more  charming  and  consistent  than  the  effect  which 
«he  produces  upon  others,  who  never  having  bo 
held  any  thing  resembling  her,  approach  her  as  "• 
wonder,"  as  something  celestial : — 

Be  sure!  the  goddess  sn  whom  these  airs  attend! 

And  again  :— 

What  is  this  maid  ? 
Is  she  the  goddess  who  hath  severed  na, 
And  brought  us  thus  together? 

And  Ferdinand  exclaims,  while  gazing  on  her,- 

My  spirits  as  in  a  dream  are  all  bound  up ! 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  that  I  feel. 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's  threat^ 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 
Behold  this  maid :  all  comers  else  o'  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of,  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 


MIRANDA.  21' 

Contrasted  with  the  impression  of  her  refined 
jind  dignified  beauty,  and  its  efiect  on  all  beholders, 
B  Miranda's  own  soft  simplicity,  her  virgin  uino- 
2ence,  her  total  ignorance  of  the  conventicral 
forms  and  language  of  society.  It  is  most  natural 
that  in  a  being  thus  constituted,  the  first  tears  should 
ipring  from  compassion,  "  suffering  with  those  that 
ihe  saw  sufier : " — 

0  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart.    Poor  souls  1  they  perished. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed. 
And  the  freighting  souls  within  her; 

and  that  her  first  sigh  should  be  offered  to  a  love 
at  once  fearless  and  submissive,  delicate  and  fond. 
She  has  no  taught  scruples  of  honor  like  Juliet ; 
no  coy  concealments  like  Viola ;  no  assumed  dig- 
nity standing  in  its  own  defence.  Her  bashfulness 
b  less  a  quality  than  an  instinct ;  it  is  like  the  self- 
folding  of  a  flower,  spontaneous  and  unconscious. 
I  suppose  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind  in  poetry 
equal  to  the  scene  between  Ferdinand  and  Miiv 
anda.  In  Ferdinand,  who  is  a  noble  creature,  we 
have  all  the  chivalrous  magnanimity  with  which 
man,  in  a  high  state  of  civilization,  disguiaes  hia 
real  superiority,  and  does  humbUt  homage  to  the 
being  of  whose  destiny  he  dispose?  j  while  Miranda, 
the  mere  child  of  nature,  is  struck  with  wonder  at 
W  own  now  emotions      Only  conscious  of  her 


eiS  CHARACTEKS   OF   PASSION,  ETC. 

own  weakness  as  a  woman,  and  ignorant  of  ihoM 
usages  of  society  which  teach  ns  to  dissemble  the 
real  passion,  and  assume  (and  sometimes  abuse)  an 
unreal  and  transient  power,  she  is  equally  ready 
to  place  her  life,  her  love,  her  service  beneath  hii 
feet 

MIRAHDA. 

Alas,  now !  pray  you. 
Work  not  so  hard :  I  would  the  lightning;  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs,  that  you  are  enjoined  to  pQel 
Pray  set  it  down  and  rest  you :  when  this  bums, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  weary'd  you.    My  father 
b  hard  at  study ;  pray  now,  rest  yourself: 
He*8  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

FEKDINAMD. 

0  most  dear  mistress, 
The  sun  will  set  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

MIRANDA. 

If  you'll  sit  down, 
m  bear  your  logs  the  while.    Pray  give  me  that^ 
rn  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

rERDIBAIID. 

No,  precious  creature; 
I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  baok* 
Than  yon  should  such  dishonor  undergo, 
WUle  I  sit  lazy  by. 

MIRAimA. 

It  would  become  me 
Am  well  u  it  does  you ;  and  I  should  do  it 


MIRANDA.  Ill 

With  mvioli  more  ease;  for  my  good  will  la  to  It, 
And  TOUTS  against. 

»'***♦ 

MIRANDA. 

You  look  wearily. 

FERDINAND. 

No,  noble  mistress ;  'tis  fresh  morning  with  m« 
When  you  are  by  at  night.    I  do  beseech  you, 
(Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers,) 
What  i*  your  name? 

MIRANDA. 

Miranda.    0  my  father 
I  haye  broke  your  'hest  to  say  so  1 

FERDINAND. 

Admir'd  Miranda! 
Indeed  the  top  cf  admiration ;  worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world !  Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard :  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brough.*'  my  too  diligent  ear:  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women ;  nevel  "ny 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed 
And  put  it  U  the  foil.    But  you,  0  you, 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best 

MIRANDA. 

I  do  not  know 
One  of  my  sex :  no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own;  nor  have  I  seen 
Uore  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father     Row  features  are  abroad 


114'         CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   KTO. 

I  am  skill-less  of:  bat,  by  my  modesty, 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not  wlak 
Any  companion  in  the  world  l)ut  3'ou ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of— But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  pree«pla 
Therein  forget. 

FERDINAND. 

I  am,  in  my  condition 
A  prince,  Miitmda — I  do  think  a  king — 
(I  would,  not  so!)  and  would  no  more  endora 
This  wooden  slavery,  than  I  would  suffer 
The  flesh-dy  blow  my  mouth.    Hear  my  soul  tpeak 
The  very  Instant  that  I  saw  yon,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and  for  your  sake, 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

HIBANDA. 

Do  yon  love  m^? 

FKRDINAND. 

0  heaven!  0  earth!  bear  witness  to  this  sooad 
And  crown  what  I  profess'  with  kind  event, 
If  I  speak  true :  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me,  to  mischief!    I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honor  you. 

MIRANDA. 

I  am  a  fool, 
Tc  VMp  at  what  I  am  glad  oil 

rUtDINAND. 

Wherefore  weep  jam 


MIBANDA.  21ft 

MIRANDA. 

hi  mine  onwortbiness,  that  dare  not  offer 

What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  less  take, 

What  I  shall  die  to  want — But  this  is  triflmg : 

And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 

The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.    Hence,  bashful  cumiiog  i 

And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence  1 

I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 

If  not  I'll  die  your  maid:  to  be  your  fellow 

You  may  deny  me ;  but  I'll  be  your  Bervant 

Whether  ycu  will  or  no ! 

FERDINAND. 

My  mistress,  dearest ' 
And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

MIRANDA. 

My  husband,  then? 

FERDINAND. 

Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing, 

As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom.    Here's  my  hand. 

MIRANDA. 

And  mine  with  my  heart  in  it.    And  now  farewell 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

As  Miranda,  being  what  she  ia,  could  only  have 
had  a  Ferdinand  for  a  lover,  and  an  Ariel  for  her 
ittendant,  so  she  could  have  had  with  propriety  na 
other  lather  than  the  majestic  and  gifted  being, 
who  fondly  claims  her  as  "  a  thread  of  his  own 
life— lay,  that  for  which  he  lives."  Prospero,  with 
Ha  magical  powers,  nis  superhuman  wisdom,  hii 
moral  worth  and  grandeur,  and  iiis  kingly  dignity 


tl6  CHARACTERS   OF   PASSION,   ETC. 

H  one  of  the  most  imblime  'dsions  that  ever  swept 
with  ample  robes,  pale  brow,  and  sceptred  hand, 
before  the  eye  of  fancy.  He  controls  the  invisible 
world,  and  works  through  the  agency  of  spirits 
not  by  any  evil  and  forbidden  compact,  but  solely 
by  superior  might  of  intellect — by  potent  spells 
gathered  from  the  lol-e  of  ages,  and  abjured  when 
he  mingles  again  as  a  man  with  his  fellow  men. 
He  is  as  distinct  a  being  from  the  necromancers 
and  astrologers  celebrated  in  Shakspeare's  age,  as 
can  well  be  imagined:*  and  all  the  wizards  of 
poetry  and  fiction,  even  Faust  and  S*.  Leon,  sink 
into  commonplaces  before  the  princely,  the  philo- 
sophic, the  benevolent  Prospero. 

The  Bermuda  Isles,  in  which  Shakspeare  has 
placed  the  scene  of  the  Tempest,  were  discovered 
in  his  time :  Sir  George  Somers  and  his  companions 
having  been  wrecked  there  in  a  terrible  8torm,| 
brought  back  a  most  fearful  account  of  those  un- 
known islands,  which  they  described  as  "  a  land  of 
devils — a  most  prodigious  and  enchanted  place, 
subject  to  continual  tempests  and  supernatural 
visitings."  Such  was  the  idea  entertained  of  the 
"  still-vext  Bermoothes  "  in  Shakspeare's  age ;  but 
later  travellers  describe  them  as  perfect  regions  of 
enchantment  in  a  far  different  sense ;  as  so  many 

•  Such  M  Cornelias  Agrippa,  Michael  Scott,  Dr.  Dee.  The  laal 
»u  the  contempcrary  of  Shakspeare. 

t  In  1809,  about  three  years  before  Shakspeare  produced  th* 
Sempeflt,  which,  though  placed  first  in  all  the  edJiiona  othk 
iKukM,  HM  one  of  the  last  of  his  dramas 


MIRANDA.  811 

'airy  Edeus,  clustered  like  a  knot  of  gems  upon 
the  bosom  of  the  Atlantic,  decked  out  in  all  the 
lavish  luxuriance  of  nature,  with  shades  of  myrtle 
and  cedar,  fringed  round  with  groves  of  coral 
in  short,  each  island  a  tiny  paradise,  rich  with 
perpetual  blossoms,  in  which  Ariel  might  have 
Blumbered,  and  ever-verdant  bowers,  in  which 
Ferdinand  and  Miranda  might  have  strayed:  so 
that  Shakspeare,  in  blending  the  wild  relations  of 
the  shipwrecked  mariners  with  his  own  inspired 
fancies,  has  produced  nothing,  however  lovely  in 
nature  and  sublime  in  magical  power,  which  does 
not  harmonize  with  the  beautiful  and  wondrous 
reality. 

There  is  another  circumstance  connected  with 
the  Tempest,  which  is  rather  interesting.  It  was 
produced  and  acted  for  the  first  time  upon  tho 
occasion  of  the  nuptials  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth, 
the  eldest  daughter  of  James  I.  with  Frederic,  the 
elector  palatine.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  remind 
the  reader  of  the  fate  of  this  amiable  but  most  un- 
happy woman,  whose  life,  almost  from  the  period 
o£  her  marriage,  was  one  long  tempestuous  scene 
of  trouble  and  adversity. 

♦  *  *  ♦  ♦ 

The  characters  which  I  have  here  classed 
together,  as  principally  distinguished  by  the  pre- 
dominance of  passion  and  fancy,  appear  to  me  to 
*i8C,  in  the  scale  of  ideality  and  simplicity,  from 
Juliet  to  Miranda ;  the  last  being  in  comparison  so 
>sfined,  so  elevated  above  all  stain  of  earth,  that 


nS  CUARACTER9   OF   PA88IOX,   ETC. 

we  can  only  acknowledge  her  in  connection  with  i! 
through  the  emotions  of  sympathy  she  feels  and 
inspires. 

I  remember,  when  I  was  in  Italy,  standing  '*  at 
evening  on  the  top  of  Fiesole,"  and  at  my  feet  I 
beheld  the  city  of  Florence  and  the  Val  d'Amo, 
with  its  villas,  its  luxuriant  gardens,  groves,  and 
olive  grounds,  all  bathed  in  crimson  light  A  tran»> 
parent  vapor  or  exhalation,  which  in  its  tint  was 
almost  as  rich  as  the  pomegranate  flower,  moving 
with  soft  undulation,  rolled  through  the  valley,  and 
the  very  earth  seemed  to  pant  with  warm  life 
beneath  its  rosy  veil.  A  dark  purple  shade,  the 
forerunner  of  night,  was  already  stealing  over  the 
east ;  in  the  western  sky  still  lingered  the  blaze  of 
the  sunset,  while  the  faint  perfume  of  trees,  and 
flowers,  and  now  and  then  a  strain  of  music  wafted 
upwards,  completed  the  intoxication  of  the  sensed. 
But  I  looked  from  the  earth  to  the  sky,  and  int- 
mediately  above  this  scene  hung  the  soft  crescent 
moon — alone,  with  all  the  bright  heaven  to  herself* 
and  as  that  sweet  moon  to  the  glowing  landscape 
beneath  it,  such  is  the  character  of  Miranda 
pared  to  that  of  Juliet 


DHARACTERS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS 


HERMIONE 

Characters  in  whlcli  the  affections  and  the 
laoral  qualities  predominate  over  fancy  and  all  that 
Dears  the  name  of  passion,  are  not,  when  we  meet 
with  them  in  real  life,  the  most  striking  and  inter- 
esting, nor  the  easiest  to  be  understood  and  appre- 
ciated ;  but  they  are  those  on  which,  in  the  long 
run,  we  repose  with  increasing  confidence  and  ever- 
new  delight.  Such  characters  are  not  easily  ex- 
hibited in  the  colors  of  poetry,  and  when  we  meet 
with  them  there,  we  are  reminded  of  the  effect  of 
Raffaelle's  pictures.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  assures 
us,  that  it  took  him  three  weeks  to  discover  the 
beauty  of  the  frescos  in  the  Vatican ;  and  many,  if 
they  spoke  the  truth,  would  prefer  one  of  Titian's 
or  Murillo's  Virgins  to  one  of  Raffaelle's  heavenly 
Madonnas.  The  less  there  is  of  marked  expression 
or  vivid  color  in  a  countenance  or  character,  the 
more  difficult  to  delineate  it  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
captivate  and  interest  us  :  but  when  this  is  done, 
and  done  to  perfection,  it  is  the  mirade  of  poetry 
in  painting,  and  of  painting  in  poetry.  Only  Raf- 
faelle  and  Correggio  have  achieved  it  in  one  case. 
%iid  only  SLakspeare  in  the  otner 


£20       CHARACTEBS   OF   THE   AFFECTIOKe. 

When,  by  the  presence  or  the  agency  of  botam 
predominant  and  exciting  power,  the  feelings  and 
afiections  arc  upturned  from  the  depths  of  the 
heart,  and  flung  *o  the  surface,  the  painter  or  the 
poet  has  but  to  watch  the  workings  of  the  passions, 
thus  in  a  manner  ma<lc  visible,  and  transfer  them 
to  his  page  or  his  canvas,  in  colors  more  or  leM 
vigorous :  but  where  all  is  calm  without  and  around, 
to  dive  into  the  profoundest  abysses  of  character, 
trace  the  affections  where  they  lie  hidden  like  the 
ocean  springs,  wind  into  the  most  intricate  involu- 
tions of  the  heart,  patiently  unravel  its  most  del 
icate  fibres,  and  in  a  few  graceful  touches  place  be 
fore  us  the  distinct  and  visible  result, — to  do  thia 
demanded  power  of  another  and  a  rarer  kind. 

There  are  several  of  Shakspeare's  characterk 
which  are  especially  distinguished  by  this  profound 
feeling  in  the  conception,  and  subdued  harmony  of 
tone  in  the  delineation.  To  them  may  be  particu- 
larly applied  the  ingenious  simile  which  Groethe  has 
used  to  illustrate  generally  all  Shakspeare's  char- 
aiCters,  when  he  compares  them  to  the  old-fashioned 
(patches  in  glass  cases,  which  not  only  showed  the 
index  pointing  to  the  hour,  but  the  wheels  and 
springs  within,  which  set  that  index  in  motion. 

Imogen,  Desdemona,  and  Hermione,  are  three 
women  placed  in  situations  nearly  similar,  and 
equally  endowed  with  all  the  qualities  which  cao 
render  that  situation  striking  and  interesting.  They 
are  all  gentle,  beautiful,  and  innocent;  all  art 
Bodelfl  of  conjugal  sabmission,  truth,  and  tender 


HERMIONE.  2Sl 

nesa,  and  all  are  victims  of  the  unfounded  jealousy 
»f  their  husbands.  So  far  the  parallel  is  close,  but 
here  the  resemblance  ceases ;  the  circumstances  of 
each  situation  are  varied  Mrith  wonderfal  skill,  and 
the  characters,  which  are  as  different  as  It  is  pes- 
lible  to  imagine,  conceived  and  discriminated  with 
a  power  of  truth  and  a  delicacy  of  feeling  yet  more 
astonishing. 

Critically  speaking,  the  character  of  Hemiione  is 
the  most  simple  in  point  of  dramatic  effect,  that  of 
Imogen  is  the  most  varied  and  complex.  Hennione 
is  most  distinguished  by  her  magnaniuMty  and  her 
fortitude,  Desdemona  by  her  gentleness  and  refined 
grace,  while  Imogen  combines  all  the  best  qualities 
of  both,  with  others  which  they  do  not  possess ; 
consequently  she  is,  as  a  character,  superior  to 
either;  but  considered  as  women,  I  suppose  the 
preference  would  depend  on  individual  taste. 

Hennione  is  the  heroine  of  the  first  three  acts  of 
the  Winter's  Tale.  She  is  the  wife  of  Leontes, 
king  of  Sicilia,  and  though  in  the  prime  of  beauty 
and  womanhood,  is  not  represented  in  the  first 
bloom  of  youth.  Her  husband  on  slight  grounds 
inspects  her  of  infidelity  with  his  friend  Polixenes, 
king  ol  Bohemia ;  the  suspicion  once  admitted,  and 
working  on  a  jealous,  passionate,  and  vindictive 
mind,  becomes  a  settled  and  confirmed  opinion. 
Hermionc  is  thrown  into  a  dungeon  ;  her  new-born 
«afant  is  taken  from  her,  and  by  the  order  of  her 
husband,  frantic  with  jealousy,  exposed  to  doath  on 
•  -'  'Sert  shore ;  she  is  herself  brought  to  a  public 


e22       CHARACTERS   OP   THE   AFFECItOir*. 

trial  for  treason  and  incontinency,  defends  herself 
nobly,  and  is  pronounced  innocent  by  the  oracle 
But  at  the  very  moment  that  she  is  acquitted,  she 
learns  the  death  of  the  prince  her  son,  who 

Conceiving  the  dishonor  of  hi8  mother, 
Had  straight  declined,  drooped,  took  it  deeply, 
Fastened  and  fixed  the  shame  on't  in  himself^ 
Threw  off  his  spirit,  appetite,  and  sleep, 
And  downright  languished. 

She  swoons  away  with  grief,  and  her  supposed 
cbath  concludes  the  third  act  The  last  two  acta 
are  occupied  with  the  adventures  of  her  daughter 
Perdita ;  and  with  the  restoration  of  Perdita  to  the 
arms  of  her  mother,  and  the  reconciliation  of  Hei> 
mione  and  Leontes,  the  piece  concludes. 

Such,  in  few  words,  is  the  dramatic  situation. 
The  character  of  Hermione  exhibits  what  is  never 
found  in  the  other  sex,  but  rarely  in  our  own — yet 
sometimes; — dignity  without  pride,  love  without 
passion,  and  tenderness  without  weakness.  To 
conceive  a  character  in  which  there  enters  so  much 
of  the  negative,  required  perhaps  no  rare  and 
astonishing  effort  of  genius,  such  as  creat  jd  a  Ju- 
liet, a  Miranda,  or  a  Lady  Macbeth ;  but  to  de- 
lineate such  a  character  in  the  poetical  form,  to 
develop  it  through  the  medium  of  action  and  dia- 
logue, without  the  aid  of  description :  to  preserve 
Ita  tranquil,  mild,  and  serious  beauty,  its  unimpa* 
rioued  dignity,  and  at  the  same  time  keep  th« 
Itrongest  hold  upon  our  sympathy  and  our  ima^ 


HERMIONE.  22S 

[nation  ;  and  out  of  this  exterior  calm,  produce  the 
most  profound  pathos,  the  most  vivid  impression  of 
life  and  internal  power : — it  is  this  which  renders 
the  character  of  Hermione  one  of  Shakspeare's 
masterpieces. 

Hermione  is  a  queen,  a  matron,  and  a  mother ' 
ghe  is  good  and  beautiful,  and  royally  descended. 
A  majestic  sweetness,  a  grand  and  gracious  simpHo- 
ity,  an  easy,  unforced,  yet  dignified  self-possession, 
are  in  all  her  deportment,  and  in  every  word  she 
utters.  She  is  one  of  those  characters,  of  whom  it 
has  been  said  proverbially,  that  "  stIU  waters  run 
deep."  Her  passions  are  not  vehement,  but  in  her 
settled  mind  the  sources  of  pain  or  pleasure,  love  or 
resentment,  are  like  the  springs  that  feed  the  moun- 
tain lakes,  impenetrable,  unfathomable,  and  inex- 
haustible. 

Shakspeare  has  conveyed  (as  is  his  custom)  a 
part  of  the  character  of  Hermione  in  scattered 
touches  and  through  the  impressions  which  she 
produces  on  all  around  her.  Her  surpassing  beauty 
8  alluded  to  In  few  but  strong  terms : — 

This  jealousy 
Is  for  a  precioan  creature;  as  she  is  rare 
Must  it  be  great. 

Praise  her  but  for  this  her  out-door  torm, 
^  Which,  on  my  faith,  deserves  high  speech — : 

If  one  by  one  you  wedded  all  the  world, 
Or  from  the  all  that  are,  took  something  goo4 
To  make  a  perfect  woman;  she  yon  killed 
Would  be  unparvllel3d. 


524        CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 

I  iQight  ha^e  looked  upon  1117  queen's  frill  eyes. 
Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips — 

and  left  them 

More  rich  for  what  they  yielded. 

The  expressions  "  most  sacred  lady,"  "  dread 
mistress,"  "  sovereign,"  with  which  she  is  addressed 
or  alluded  to,  the  boundless  devotion  and  respect 
of  those  around  her,  and  their  confidence  in  her 
goodness  and  innocence,  are  so  many  additional 
strokes  in  the  portrait. 

For  her,  my  lord, 
I  dare  my  life  lay  down,  and  will  do't,  sir. 
Please  yon  t'  accept  it,  that  the  que«n  is  spotless 
r  the  eyes  of  heaven,  and  to  you. 

Every  inch  of  woman  in  the  world, 

Ay,  every  dram  of  woman's  flesh  is  false, 

If  she  be  so. 

I  would  not  be  a  stander-by  to  hear 

My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 

My  present  vengeance  taken  I 

The  mixture  of  plaj-ful  courtesy,  queenly  dignity 
Ktd  lady-like  sweetness,  with  which  she  prevail*  oa 
Polixenes  to  prolong  his  visit,  is  charming. 

HERMIONB. 

You'll  stay  1 

POLIXKSKS. 

No,  madam. 

HBRHIOVB. 

Nay,  but  yon  wflL 


BERMIONB.  22S 

FOLIXEMBS. 

fDft}^  not,  verily.  * 

HEBMIONB. 

Verily! 
f ou  put  me  off  with  limber  vows ;  but  I, 
Tho'  yon  would  seek  t'  uiisphere  the  stars  with  octlii 
Should  still  say,  "  Sir,  no  going!  "     Verily, 
You  shall  no<  go !     A  lady's  verily  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yet  ? 
Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner, 
Not  like  a  guest  ? 

And  though  the  situation  of  Hermione  admits  but 
of  few  general  reflections,  one  little  speech,  inimi- 
tably  beautiful  and  characteristic,  has  become  almost 
proverbial  from  its  truth.     She  says  : — 

One  good  deed,  dying  tongueless, 
Slaughters  a  thousand,  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wajjes;  you  may  ride  us 
With  cne  soft  kiss  a  thousand  furlongs,  ere 
With  spur  we  heat  an  acre. 

She  receives  the  first  intimation  of  her  husband'f 
jealous  suspicions  with  incredulous  astonishment. 
It  is  not  that,  like  Desdemona,  she  does  not  or  can- 
not understand ;  but  slie  will  not.  When  he  ac- 
cuses her  more  plainly,  she  replies  with  a  caliB 
iigniiy  :— 

Should  a  villain  say  so — 
The  most  replenished  villain  in  the  world — 
He  were  as  much  rmm  villain:  you,  my  lord. 
Do  but  mistake. 
16 


S26        CHARACTERS   OF   THE  AFFKCTIONS. 

This  characteristic  composure  of  temper  iicvei 
forsakes  her ;  and  yet  it  is  so  delineated  that  th« 
impression  is  that  of  grandeur,  and  never  borden 
upon  pride  or  coldness :  it  is  the  fortitude  of  a 
gentle  bu'  a  strong  mind,  conscious  of  its  own  in- 
nocence. Nothing  can  be  more  affecting  than  her 
calm  reply  to  Leontes,  who,  in  his  jealous  rage, 
bea})S  insult  upon  insult,  and  accuses  her  before  her 
jwn  attendants,  as  no  better  "  than  one  of  those  to 
whom  the  vulgar  give  bold  titles." 

How  will  this  grieve  yon, 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  have  thus  published  me !     Gentle  my  lord, 
You  scarce  can  right  me  thoroughly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

Her  mild  dignity  and  saint-like  patience,  com- 
bined as  they  are  with  the  strongest  sense  of  the 
cruel  injustice  of  her  husband,  thrill  us  with  admi- 
ration as  well  as  pity ;  and  we  cannot  but  see  and 
feel,  that  for  Hermione  to  give  way  to  tears  and 
i  feminine  complaints  under  such  a  blow,  would  be 
quite  incompatible  with  the  character.  Thus  she 
lays  of  herself,  as  she  is  led  to  prison : — 

There's  some  iU  pHnet  reigns: 
I  must  be  patient  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favorable.     Good  my  lordi, 
I  am  net  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew 
'  Perchauce  shall  dry  your  pities ;  but  I  have 
That  honorable  grief  lodged  here,  that  boma 


UURMIONS.  227 

Worse  than  tears  drown.    Beseech  you  all,  my  lord^ 
With  thought  80  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me:  and  bo 
The  king's  will  be  performed. 

When  she  is  brought  to  trial  for  supposed  cnmea, 
tailed  on  to  defend  herself,  "  standing  to  prate  and 
talk  for  life  and  honor,  before  who  j<lease  to  come 
and  hear,"  the  sense  of  her  ignominious  situation — 
all  its  shame  and  all  its  horror  press  upon  her,  and 
would  apparently  crush  even  her  magnanimoiu 
■pint,  but  for  the  consciousness  of  her  own  worth 
and  innocence,  and  the  necessity  that  exists  for  an 
serting  and  defending  both. 

If  powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions,  (as  they  do, 
I  donbt  not,  then,  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience. 

•  «  »  »  • 

For  life,  I  prize  it 
As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare.    For  honor— 
'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine. 
And  only  that  I  stand  for.  * 

Her  earnest,  eloquent  justification  of  herself,  and 
her  lofty  sense  of  female  honor,  are  rendered  more 
ftfiecting  and  impressive  by  that  chilling  despair 
that  contempt  for  a  life  which  has  been  made  bitter 
to  her  through  unkindness,  which  is  betrayed  in 
*very  word  of  her  speech,  though  so  calmly  char- 
acteristic. When  she  enumerates  the  unmerited  in- 
^ts  which  have  been  heaped  upon  her,  it  is  with 


B28        CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 

Wit  asperity  or  reproach,  yet  in  a  tone  which  Bhowi 
»ow  completely  the  iron  has  entered  hcjr  sodl 
Thus,  when  Leontes  threatens  her  with  death : — 

Sir,  spare  your  threats ; 
The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with,  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity; 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favor, 
I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone. 
But  know  not  how  it  went.     My  second  joy. 
The  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
1  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious.  My  third  comfort— 
StaiT'd  most  unluckily  I — is  from  my  breast, 
Tlie  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth, 
Hilled  out  to  murder.     Myself  on  every  poet 
Proclaimed  a  strumpet;  with  immodest  hatred^ 
The  cliildbed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion.     Lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i'  the  open  air,  before 
1  have  got  strength  of  limit.    Now,  my  liege, 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive. 
That  I  should  fear  to  die.    Therefore,  proceed. 
But  yet  hear  this;  mistake  me  not.    No!  life, 
I  prize  it  not  a  straw: — but  for  mine  honor, 
(  Which  I  would  free,)  if  I  shall  be  conaemned 
T'pon  surmises;  all  proof  sleeping  else. 
But  what  j'our  jealousies  awake;  I  tell  you, 
'Tis  rigor  and  not  law. 

Tlie  character  of  Hcrmione  is  considered  open 
to  criticism  on  one  point  I  have  heard  it  remark 
cd  tiiat  when  she  secludes  herself  from  the  world 
for  sixteen  years,  during  which  time  she  is  mourned 
M  dead  by  her  repentant  husband,  and  is  not  won 
to  relent  ffom  her  resolve  by  his  sorrow,  hu  r» 


HERMIOXE.  22% 

Horse,  his  constancy  to  lier  memory ;  such  conduct, 
ftrgues  the  critic,  is  unfeeling  as  it  is  inconceivable 
in  a  tender  and  virtuous  woman.  Would  Imogen 
have  done  so,  who  is  so  generously  ready  to  grant 
a  pardon  before  it  be  asked  ?  or  Desdemona,  who 
does  not  forgive  because  she  cannot  even  resent  ? 
No,  assuredly ;  but  this  is  only  another  proof  of 
the  wonderful  delicacy  and  consistency  with  which 
Shakspeare  has  discriminated  the  characters  of  all 
three.  The  incident  of  Hermione's  supposed  death 
and  concealment  for  sixteen  years,  is  not  indeed 
very  probable  in  itself,  nor  very  likely  to  occur  in 
every-day  lile.  But  besides  all  the  probability  nec- 
essary for  the.  purposes  of  poetry,  it  has  all  the 
likelihood  it  can  derive  from  the  peculiar  character 
of  Hermione,  who  is  precisely  the  woman  who 
could  and  would  have  acted  in  this  manner.  In 
such  a  mind  as  hers,  the  sense  of  a  cruel  injury,  in- 
flicted by  one  she  had  loved  and  trusted,  without 
awakening  any  violent  angei  or  any  desire  of  ven- 
geance, would  sink  deep — almost  incurably  and 
lastingly  deep.  So  far  she  is  most  unlike  eithci 
Imogen  or  Desdemona,  who  are  portrayed  as  much 
more  flexible  in  temper ;  but  then  the  circumstancei 
under  which  she  is  wronged  are  very  different,  and 
far  more  unpardonable.  The  self-created,  frantio 
jealousy  of  Leontes  is  very  distinct  from  that  d 
Othello,  writhing  under  the  arts  of  lago :  or  that  of 
Posthumus,  whose  understanding  has  been  cheated 
by  the  most  deunning  evidence  of  his  wife's  infidel« 
*T     The  jealousy  which  in  Othello  and  Posthumm 


}80  HAKACTERB   OF   THE   AFFECTIOH8. 

is  ail  error  of  judgment,  in  Leontcs  is  a  vice  of  Um 
Mood ;  he  suspects  without  cause,  condemns  without 
proof;  he  is  without  excuse — unless  the  mixture  ol 
pride,  passion,  and  imagination,  and  the  predispo* 
rition  to  jealousy  with  which  Shakspeare  has  poi^ 
trayed  him,  be  considered  as  an  excuse.  Hermione 
has  been  openly  insulted :  he  to  whom  she  gairq 
herself,  her  heart,  her  soul,  has  stooped  to  the  weak- 
ness and  baseness  of  suspicion  ;  has  doubted  he? 
truth,  has  wronged  her  love,  has  sunk  in  her  esteem, 
and  forfeited  her  confidence.  She  has  been  branded 
with  vile  names;  her  son,  her  eldest  hope,  is  dead 
— dead  through  the  false  accusation  which  has  stuck 
infamy  on  his  mother's  name ;  and  her  innocent 
babe,  stained  with  illegitimacy,  disowned  and  re- 
jected, has  been  exposed  to  a  cruel  death.  Can 
we  believe  that  the  mere  tardy  acknowledgment  of 
her  innocence  could  make  amends  for  wrongs  and 
agonies  such  as  these  ?  or  heal  a  heart  which  must 
have  bled  inwardly,  consumed  by  that  untold  grief, 
"  which  bums  worse  than  tears  drown  ?  "  Keeping 
in  view  the  peculiar  character  of  Hermione,  such 
as  she  is  delineated,  is  she  one  either  to  forgive 
hastily  or  forget  quickly?  and  though  sle  might,  in 
her  solitude,  mourn  over  her  repentant  husband, 
would  his  repentance  sufHce  to  restore  him  at  onc« 
to  his  place  in  her  heart :  to  efface  from  her  strong 
and  reflecting  mind  the  recollection  of  his  miserable 
weakness  ?  or  can  we  fancy  this  high-souled  womaa 
•—left  childless  through  the  injury  which  has  beei 
mdioted  oi.  her,  widowed  in  heaii;  by  the  un worth 


HERMIOXE.  m 

mess  of  him  sje  loved,  a  spectacle  of  gnef  to  all — 
to  her  husband  a  continual  reproach  and  humilia- 
tion— walking  through  the  parade  of  royalty  in  the 
court  which  had  witnessed  her  anguish,  her  shame, 
her  degradation,  and  her  despair  ?  Methinks  that 
the  want  of  feeling,  nature,  delicacy,  and  consist- 
ency, would  lie  in  such  an  exhibition  as  this.  In 
a  mind  like  Hermione's,  where  the  strength  of  feel- 
ing is  founded  in  the  power  of  thought,  and  where 
there  is  little  of  impulse  or  imagination, — "the 
depth,  but  not  the  tumult  of  the  soul,"  * — there  are 
but  two  influences  which  predominate  over  the 
will, — time  and  religion.  And  what  then  remained, 
but  that,  wounded  in  heart  and  spirit,  she  should 
retire  from  the  world  ? — not  to  brood  over  her 
wrongs,  but  to  study  forgiveness,  and  wait  the  ful- 
filment of  the  oracle  which  had  promised  the  ter- 
mination of  her  sorrows.  Thus  a  premature  reo- 
onciUation  would  not  only  have  been  painfullj 
inconsistent  with  the  character ;  it  would  also  have 
deprived  us  of  that  most  beautiful  scene,  in  which 
Hermione  is  discovered  to  her  husband  as  the  statue 
»r  image  of  herself.  And  here  we  have  another 
mstance  of  that  admirable   art,  with  which  the 


-The  gods  approye 


The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult  of  the  soul. 

WORDSWOKTH. 

*  H  pocvait  y  avoir  des  vagues  majestueuses  et  non  de  I'oraf* 
nna  son  coeur,"  was  finely  observed  o'  Madame  de  Stael  in  bar 
oaturer  years ;  it  woulf"  have  i>eett  ♦rue  of  Hermione  at  any 
'<«rin<l  of  tier  life. 


2S2       CHARACTERS   OF   THl     iPFECTIONb. 

dramatic  character  13  fitted  to  the  circumstancea  in 
which  it  is  placed :  that  perfect  command  ovet  hei 
own  feelings,  that  complete  self-possession  nece*- 
lary  to  this  extraordinary  situation,  ia  consistent 
with  all  that  we  imagine  of  Hermione:  in  any 
other  woman  it  would  be  so  incredible  as  to  shock 
all  our  ideas  of  probability. 

This  scene,  then,  is  not  only  one  of  the  nxMt 
picturesque  and  striking  instances  of  stage  effect  to 
be  faund  in  the  ancient  or  modern  drama,  bat  by 
the  skilful  manner  in  which  it  is  prepared,  it  has, 
wonderful  as  it  appears,  all  the  merit  of  consistency 
and  truth.  The  grief,  the  love,  the  remorse  and 
impatience  of  Leontes,  are  finely  contrasted  with 
the  astonishment  and  admiration  of  Perdita,  who, 
gazing  on  the  figure  of  her  mother  like  one  en- 
tranced, looks  as  if  she  were  also  turned  to  marble. 
There  is  here  one  little  instance  of  tender  remem< 
brance  in  Leontes,  which  adds  to  the  channing 
impression  of  Hermione's  character. 

Chide  me,  dear  stone !  that  I  may  say  indeed 
Thou  art  Hermione;  or  rather  thou  art  she 
In  thy  not  chiding,  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy  and  grace. 

Thus  she  stood. 
Even  with  such  life  of  majesty — warm  life — 
Afl  now  it  coldly  stands — when  first  I  woo'd  hert 

Vhh  effect  produced  on  the  different  persons  of  tha 
Irama  by  this  living  statue — an  effect  which  at  tk* 


HERMIONE.  SS« 

Hune  moment  is,  and  is  not  illumon — the  manne* 
m  which  the  feelings  of  the  spectators  become 
entangled  between  the  conviction  of  death  and  the 
impression  of  life,  the  idea  of  a  deception  and  the 
feeling  of  a  reality ;  and  the  exquisite  coloring  of 
poetry  and  touches  of  natural  feeling  with  which 
the  whole  is  wrought  up,  till  wonder,  expectation, 
and  intense  pleasure,  hold  our  pulse  and  breath 
luspended  on  the  event, — are  quite  inimitable 
The  expressions  used  here  by  Leontes, — 

Thus  she  stood, 
Even  with  such  life  of  majesty — warm  Ufe. 
The  fixture  of  her  eye  ha«  motion  in't. 
And  we  are  mock'd  by  art! 

And  aj  Polixines, — 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip. 

Appear  strangely  applied  to  a  statue,  such  as  w« 
usually  imagine  it — of  the  cold  colorless  marble; 
but  it  is  evident  that  in  this  scene  Hermione  per- 
sonates one  of  those  images  or  effigies,  such  as  we 
may  see  in  the  old  gothic  cathedrals,  in  which  the 
■tone,  or  marble,  was  iolored  after  nature.  I 
remember  coning  suddenly  upon  one  of  these 
effigies,  either  at  Basle  or  at  Fribourg,  which  made 
me  start :  the  figure  was  large  as  life  ;  the  drapery 
of  crimson,  powdered  with  stars  of  gold ;  the  face 
»nd  eyes,  and  hair,  tinted  af:er  nature,  though 
%uled  by  time :  it  stood  In  a  gothic  niche,  over  a 
tomb,  as  I  think,  and  in  a  kind  of  dim  uncertain 
t((ht.    It  would  have  been  very  easy  for  a  living 


SS4       CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFKCTION8. 

person  to  represent  such  an  effigy,  particTilarly  H 
it  had  been  painted  by  that  "  rare  Italian  master. 
Julio  Romano,"*  who,  as  we  are  informed,  WM 
the  reputed  author  of  this  wonderful  statue. 

The  moment  when  Hermione  descends  from  her 
pedestal,  to  the  sound  of  soft  music,  and  throwi 
herself  without  speaking  into  her  husband's  anna, 
is  one  of  inexpressible  interest.  It  appears  to  me 
that  her  silence  during  the  whole  of  this  scene 
(except  where  she  invokes  a  blessing  on  her 
daughter's  head)  is  in  the  finest  taste  as  a  poetical 
beauty,  besides  being  an  admirable  trait  of  char* 
acter.  The  misfortunes  of  Hermione,  her  long 
religious  seclusion,  the  wonderful  and  almost  super- 
natural part  she  has  just  enacted,  have  invested 
her  with  such  a  sacred  and  awful  charm,  that  any 
words  put  into  her  mouth,  must,  I  think,  have 
mjured  the  solemn  and  profound  pathos  of  the 
situation. 

There  are  several  among  Shakspeare's  chai^ 
acters  which  exercise  a  far  stronger  power  ovei 
our  feelings,  our  fancy,  our  understanding,  than 
that  of  Hermione ;  but  not  one, — unless  perhapi 
Cordelia, — constructed  upon  so  high  and  pure 
A  principle.  It  is  the  union  of  gentleness  with 
power  which  constitutes  the  perfection  of  mental 
grace.  Thus  among  the  ancients,  with  whom  the 
graces  were  also  the  charities,  (to  show,  perhaps 
that  while  form  alone  may  constitute  beauty,  senti* 
iMDt  is  necessary  to  grace,)  one  and  the 

•  winter's  Talo,  act  t  wen«  11 


HERMIONE.  SS9 

irord  signified  equally  strength  and  virtue.  Thii 
feeling,  earned  into  the  fine  arts,  was  the  secret  of 
&e  antique  grace — the  grace  of  repose.  The 
same  eternal  nature — the  same  sense  of  immutable 
truth  and  beauty,  which  revealed  this  sublime 
principle  of  art  to  the  ancient  Greeks,  revealed  it 
to  the  genius  of  Shakspeare;  and  the  character 
of  Hermione,  in  which  we  have  the  same  largeness 
of  conception  and  delicacy  of  execution, — the  same 
effect  of  suffering  without  passion,  and  grandeur 
without  effort,  is  an  instance,  I  think,  that  he  felt 
within  himself,  and  by  intuition,  what  we  study  all 
our  lives  in  the  remains  of  ancient  art.  The  calm, 
regular,  classical  beauty  of  Hermione's  character 
is  the  more  impressive  from  the  wild  and  gothic 
accompaniments  of  her  story,  and  the  beautiful 
relief  afforded  by  the  pastoral  and  romantic  grace 
which  is  thrown  around  her  daughter  Perdita. 

The  character  of  Paulina,  in  the  Winter's  Tale, 
though  it  has  obtained  but  little  notice,  and  no 
critical  remark,  (that  I  have  seen,)  is  yet  one  of 
the  striking  beauties  of  the  play :  and  it  has  its 
moral  too.  As  we  see  running  through  the  whole 
universe  that  principle  of  contrast  which  may  be 
called  the  life  of  nature,  so  we  behold  it  every 
where  illustrated  in  Shakspeare:  upon  this  prin- 
ciple he  has  placed  Emilia  beside  Desdemona,  the 
nurse  beside  Juliet;  the  clowns  and  dairy-maids, 
»nd  the  merry  peddler  thief  Autolycus  round  Flori- 
cel  and  Perdita* — and  made  Paulina  the  friend  of 
Qermione. 


IS6         CnXRACTERS  OF   THE   AFFEOTIOXB. 

Paulina  does  not  fill  any  osUmsIble  ofHce  neai 
die  person  of  the  queen,  but  is  a  lady  of  high  rank 
in  the  court — the  wife  of  the  Lord  Antigones.  She 
18  a  character  strongly  drawn  from  real  and  com- 
mon hfe — a  clever,  generous,  strong-minded,  warm- 
hearted woman,  fearless  in  asserting  the  truth,  firm 
in  her  sense  of  right,  enthusiastic  in  all  her  afTeo- 
tions ;  quick  in  thought,  resolute  in  word,  and  ener- 
getic in  action  ;  but  heedless,  hot-tempered,  impa- 
tient, loud,  bold,  voluble,  and  turbulent  of  tongue ; 
regardless  of  the  feelings  of  those  for  whom  she  would 
sacrifice  her  life,  and  injuring  from  excess  of  zeal 
tliose  whom  she  most  wishes  to  serve.  How  many 
■uch  are  there  in  the  world  1  But  Paulina,  though 
a  very  termagant,  is  yet  a  poetical  termagant  in 
her  way ;  and  the  manner  in  which  all  the  evil 
and  dangerous  tendencies  of  such  a  temper  are 
placed  before  us,  even  while  the  individual  char- 
acter preserves  the  strongest  hold  upon  our  respect 
and  admiration,  forms  an  impressive  lesson,  as  well 
as  a  natural  and  delightful  portrait 

In  the  scene,  for  instance,  where  she  brings  the 
infant  before  Leontes,  with  the  hope  of  softening 
him  to  a  sense  of  his  injustice — "  an  office  which," 
as  she  observes,  "  becomes  a  woman  best " — her 
want  of  self-government,  her  bitter,  inconsiderat* 
reproaches,  only  add,  as  we  might  easily  suppose 
to  his  fury. 

PAUUITA. 

I  say  I  com« 
From  your  good  qaeeu  I 


HERMIONE.  SSI 

LEONTKS. 

Qood  queen ! 

PAULINA. 

Good  queen,  my  lord,  good  queen :  I  say  good  qneon; 
And  wou!d  by  combat  make  her  good,  so  were  I 
A  man,  the  worst  about  you. 

LEONTES 

Force  her  hence. 

PAULINA. 

Let  him  that  makes  but  trifles  of  his  eyes. 
First  hand  me :  on  mine  own  accord  I'll  oflF; 
But  first  I'll  do  mine  errand.    The  good  queen 
(For  she  is  good)  hath  brought  you  forth  a  daughter- 
Here  'tis ;  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

LEONTES. 

Traitors ! 
Will  you  not  push  her  out !    Give  her  the  bastard. 

PAULINA. 

Forever 
Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 
Tak'st  up  the  princess  by  that  forced  baseness 
Which  he  has  put  upon't! 


He  dreads  his  wife. 

PAULINA. 

So,  I  would  you  did ;  then  'twere  past  all  doabt 
Von'd  call  your  children  your's 

LEONTBS 

A  callat. 
Of  boundless  tongue,  who  late  hath  beat  her  hanbaad, 
Aad  now  bai'^s  me ! — this  bra.  is  none  of  mine. 


138        CHARACTERS   OF   THE    AFFECTIONS. 
PAUUSA. 

It  is  yours, 
And  might  we  lay  the  old  proverb  to  your  char^, 
So  like  you,  'tis  the  worse. 

LEONTES. 

A  gross  ha|rt 
And  lozel,  thou  art  worthy  to  be  hang'd. 
That  wilt  not  stay  her  tongue. 

ANTIGOXB8. 

Hang  all  the  husbands 
That  cannot  do  that  feat,  you'll  leave  youTMlf 
Hardly  one  subject. 

LEONTES. 

Once  more,  take  her  hence. 

PAULINA. 

A  most  unworthy  and  unnatural  lord 
Can  do  no  more. 

LEONTES. 

I'll  have  thee  bum'd.  ' 

PAULINA. 

I  care  not: 
It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire, 
Not  she  which  bums  in't. 

Here,  while  we  honor  ber  courage  and  Ii6> 
aflection,  we  cannot  help  regretting  her  violence. 
We  see,  too,  in  Paulina,  what  we  so  often  see  ia 
real  life,  that  it  Is  not  those  who  are  most  8uscepti« 
We  in  their  own  temper  and  feelings,  who  are  most 
delicate  and  forbearing  towards  the  feelings  of 
others.  She  does  not  comprehend,  or  will  not 
ftliow  for  the  sensitive  weakness  of  a  mind  lew 


HERMIOXE.  2S9 

firmly  tempered  than  her  own.  There  is  a  reply 
Df  Leontes  to  one  of  her  cutting  speeches,  which 
is  full  of  feeling,  and  a  lesson  to  those,  who,  with 
the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  force  the  painfiil 
truth,  like  a  knife,  into  the  already  lacerated  heart 

PAULINA. 

If,  one  by  one,  you  wedded  all  the  world, 
Or,  from  the  all  that  are,  took  something  good 
To  make  a  perfect  woman,  she  you  kill'd 
Would  be  unparaUel'd. 

LXONTES. 

I  think  so.    KUl'd  I 

She  I  kill'd y    I  did  so:  but  thou  strik'st  me 

Sorely,  to  say  I  did ;  it  is  as  bitter 

Upon  thy  ton^e,  as  in  my  thought.    Now,  good  now 

Fiiy  so  but  seldom. 

OLEOHENES. 

Not  at  all,  good  lady: 

You  might  have  spoken  a  thousand  things  that  would 
Have  done  the  time  more  benefit,  and  grac'd 
Your  kindness  better. 

We  can  only  excuse  Paulina  by  recollecting  that 
it  is  a  part  of  her  purpose  to  keep  alive  in  the 
heart  of  Leontes  the  remembrance  of  his  queen's 
perfections,  and  of  his  own  cruel  injustice.  It  ia 
admirable,  too,  that  Hermione  and  Paulina,  while 
BuflBciently  approximated  to  afford  all  the  pleasure 
of  contrast,  are  never  brought  too  nearly  in  contact 
on  the  scene  or  in  the  dialogue  ;*  for  this  would 

*  Only  in  the  last  scene  when,  with  solemnity  befitting  Um 
aeeasion,  Paulina  invokes  the  majestic  figure  to  "  descend,  and 
ke  stone  no  more,"  and  where  she  presents  her  daughter  to  baft 
I*  Sara,  go&l  lady '.  our  PerdiM  ia  found.' 


840      AUACTERS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

have  been  a  fault  in  taste,  and  have  necessarily 
weakened  the  effect  of  both  characters: — either 
the  serene  grandeur  of  Hermione  would  have  sub- 
dued and  overawed  the  fiery  spirit  of  Paulina,  or 
the  impetuous  temper  of  the  latter  must  have  dis- 
turbed in  some  respect  our  impression  of  the  calm, 
majestic,  and  somewhat  melaacholy  beauty  of 
Hermione. 


DESDEMONA. 

The  character  of  Hermione  is  addressed  more  to 
the  imagination ;  that  of  Desdemona  to  the  feel- 
ings. All  that  can  render  sorrow  majestic  is 
gathered  round  Hermione ;  all  that  can  render 
misery  heart-breaking  is  assembled  round  Desde- 
mona. The  wronged  but  self-sustained  virtue  of 
Hermione  commands  our  veneration  ;  the  injured 
and  defenceless  innocence  of  Desdemona  so  wringn 
the  soul,  "  that  all  for  pity  we  could  die." 

Desdemona,  as  a  character,  comes  nearest  to 
Miranda,  both  in  herself  as  a  woman,  and  in  the 
perfect  simplicity  and  unity  of  the  delineation ; 
the  figures  are  differently  draped — the  proportions 
are  the  same.  There  is  the  same  modesty,  tender^ 
ness,  and  grace ;  the  same  artless  devotion  in  the 
affections,  the  same  predisposition  to  wonder,  to 
pity,  to  admire ;  the  same  almost  ethereal  refine- 
ment and  delicacy ;  but  all  is  pure  poetic  natur* 
vithin  Miranda  and  around  her:   Desdemona  it 


DESDEMONA.  241 

more  associated  with  the  palpable  realities  of  every- 
day existence,  and  we  see  the  forms  and  habits  (rf 
■ociety  tinting  her  language  and  deportment ;  no 
two  beings  can  be  more  alike  in  character — nor 
Uiore  distinct  as  individuals. 

The  love  of  Desdeoona  for  Othello  appears  at 
first  such  a  violation  of  all  probabilities,  that  her 
&ther  at  o'2:3  imputes  it  to  magic,  "  to  spells  and 
mixtures  powerful  o'er  the  blood." 

She,  in  spite  of  nature, 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  every  thing. 
To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  feared  to  look  on  I 

And  the  devilish  malignity  of  lago,  whose  coarse 
mind  cannot  conceive  an  affection  founded  purely 
in  sentiment,  derives  from  her  love  itself  a  strong 
argument  against  her. 

Ay,  there's  the  point,  as  to  be  bold  with  you, 
Not  to  affect  any  proposed  matches 
Of  her  own  clime,  complexion,  and  degree. 
Whereto,  we  see,  in  all  things  nature  tends,*  &c. 

Ji  Jtwithstanding  this  disparity  of  age,  character, 
coimtry,  complexion,  we,  who  are  admitted  into  the 
■ecret,  see  her  love  rise  naturally  and  necessarily 
out  of  the  leading  propensities  of  her  nature. 

At  the  period  of  the  story  a  spirit  of  wild  ad- 
venture had  seized  all  Europe.  The  discovery  <rf 
both  Indies  was  yet  recent ;  over  the  shores  of  the 
western  hemisphere  still  fable  and  mj'stery  hung, 

*  Act  lii.  goen«  3. 


£42        CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 

with  all  their  dim  enchantments,  visionary  terrcn^ 
and  golden  promises  !  perilous  expeditions  and 
distant  voyages  were  every  day  undertaken  from 
hope  of  plunder,  or  mere  love  of  enterprise ;  and 
from  <^heso  the  adventurers  returned  with  tales  of 
"  Antfes  vast  and  desarts  wild — of  cannibals  that 
did  each  other  eat — of  Anthropophagi,  and  men 
whose  heads  did  grow  beneath  their  shoulders." 
With  just  such  stories  did  Raleigh  and  CliflFord, 
and  their  followers  return  from  the  New  World: 
and  thus  by  their  splendid  or  fearful  exaggerations, 
which  the  imperfect  knowledge  of  those  times  could 
not  refute,  was  the  passion  for  the  romantic  and 
marvellous  nourished  at  home,  particularly  among 
the  women.  A  cavalier  of  those  days  had  no  nearer 
no  surer  way  to  his  mistress's  heart,  than  by  enter- 
taining her  with  these  wondrous  narratives.  What 
was  a  general  feature  of  his  time,  Shakspeare  seized 
and  adapted  to  his  purpose  with  the  most  exquisite 
felicity  of  effect.  Desdemona,  leaving  her  house- 
hold cares  in  haste,  to  hang  breathless  on  Othello's 
tales,  was  doubtless  a  picture  from  the  life ;  and 
her  inexperience  and  her  quick  imagination  lend 
it  an  added  propriety  :  then  her  compassionate  dis- 
position is  interested  by  all  the  disastrous  chances, 
hair-breadth  'scapes,  and  moving  accidents  by 
flood  and  field,  of  which  he  has  to  tell ;  and  her 
exceeding  gentleness  and  timidity,  and  her  do- 
mestic turn  of  mind,  render  her  more  easily  cap- 
bvated  by  the  military  renown,  the  valor,  and  loft^ 
'bearing  of  the  noble  Moor — 


DESDEMONA.  S4I 

And  to  his  honors  and  his  valiant  parts 
Does  she  her  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate. 

The  confession  and  the  excuse  for  her  l.ve  ii 
irell  placed  in  the  mouth  of  Desdemona,  while  the 
history  of  the  rise  of  that  love,  and  of  his  course 
of  wooing,  is,  with  the  most  graceful  propriety,  as 
far  as  she  is  concerned,  spoken  by  Othello,  and  in 
her  absence.  The  last  two  lines  summing  up  the 
whole — 

She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  passed, 
And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them — 

comprise  whole  volumes  of  sentiment  and  meta- 
physics. 

Desdemona  displays  at  times  a  transient  energy, 
arising  from  the  power  of  affection,  but  gentle- 
ness gives  the  prevailing  tone  to  the  character — 
gentleness  in  its  excess — gentleness  verging  on  pas- 
liveness — ^gentleness,  which  not  only  cannot  resent, 
—but  cannot  resist. 

OTHELLO. 

Then  of  so  gentle  a  condition  I 

L\GO. 

Ay !  too  gentle. 

OTHELLO. 

Nay,  that's  certain 

Here  the  exceeding  softness  of  Desdemona  i 
temper  is  turned  against  her  by  lago,  so  that  i( 
luddcnly  strikes  Othello  in  &  new  point  of  view 


iii       CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFKCnONS. 

fcs  the  inability  to  resist  temptation  ;  but  to  lis  wli«, 
perceive  the  character  as  a  whole,  this  extremo 
gentleness  of  nature  is  yet  delineated  with  such 
exceeding  refinement,  that  the  effect  never  ap 
proaohes  to  feebleness.  It  is  true  that  once  he* 
extreme  timidity  leads  her  in  a  moment  of  con- 
flision  and  terror  to  prevaricate  about  the  fati^ 
handkerchief.  This  handkerchief,  in  the  original 
atory  of  Cinthio,  is  merely  one  of  those  embroider* 
ed  handkerchiefs  which  were  as  fashionable  in 
Shakspeare's  time  as  in  our  own  ;  but  the  minute 
description  of  it  as  "  lavorato  alia  morisco  sottilis- 
aimamente,"  *  suggested  to  the  poetical  fancy  of 
Shakspeare  one  of  the  most  exquisite  and  charac- 
teristic passages  in  the  whole  play.  Othello  maket 
poor  Desdemona  believe  that  the  handkerchief  wai 
ft  talisman. 

There's  magic  in  the  web  of  it 
A  sibyl,  that  had  numbered  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  make  two  hundred  compasses, 
In  her  prophetic  fury  sew'd  the  work : 
The  worms  were  hallowed  that  did  breed  the  silk. 
And  It  was  dyed  in  mummy,  which  the  skilful 
Conserv'd  of  maidens'  hearts. 

DESDEMONA. 

Indeed !  b't  true  ? 

OniELLO. 

Most  veritable,  therefore  look  to't  well. 

•Whfch  Iwing  Interpreted  into  modern  English.  nnwM,  i 
vtUtn,  nothing  more  than  that  tlw  pattern  was  what  m  bM 
ttO  mrabetqtu. 


DESDEMONA.  941 

DE8DEMONA. 

then  would  to  heaven  that  I  had  never  seen  U 

OTHELLO. 

Hal  wherefore! 

DESDEMONA. 

Whj  do  you  speak  so  startiugly  and  rash? 

OTHELLO. 

b't  lost, — ^Is't  gone  ?    Speak,  is  it  out  of  the  waj  I 

PBSDEHONA.  • 

Hearens  bless  us ! 

OTHELLO. 

Say  you? 

DESDEMONA. 

It  is  not  lost — ^but  what  an'  if  it  were? 

OTHELLO. 

Hal 

DESDBMONA. 

I  say  it  is  not  lost. 

OTHELLO. 

Fetch  it,  let  me  see  it. 

DESDEMONA. 

Why  so  I  can,  sir,  but  I  will  not  now,  &e. 

Desdemona,  whose  soft  credulity,  whose  turn  foi 
the  marvellous,  whose  susceptible  imagination  bad 
first  directed  her  thoughts  and  affections  ta 
Othello,  is  precisely  the  woman  to  be  frightened 
wt  of  her  senses  by  such  a  tale  as  this,  and  be* 
trayed  by  her  fears  into  a  momentary  tergiversa« 
Uon.     It  is  most  natural  in  such  a  being,  and  .show4 


M6        CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 

08  that  even  in  the  sweetest  natures  there  can  be 
DO  completeness  and  consistency  without  mora, 
energy.* 

With  the  most  perfect  artlessness,  she  has  some* 
thing  of  the  instinctive,  unconscious  address  of  hei 
•ex ;  as  when  she  appeals  to  her  father — 

So  much  duty  as  my  mother  show'd 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  I  challenge,  that  I  may  profess 
*  Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord. 

And  when  she  is  pleading  for  Cassio — 

What!  Michael  Cassio! 
That  came  a  wooing  with  you ;  and  many  a  time. 
When  I  have  spoken  of  you  disparagingly, 
Hath  ta'en  your  part? 

In  persons  who  unite  great  sensibility  and  lively 
UkTicj,  I  have  often  observed  this  particular  species 
of  address,  which  is  always  unconscious  of  itself, 
and  consists  in  the  power  of  placing  ourselves  in 

*  There  is  an  incident  in  the  original  tale,  "  II  Moro  di 
Yenezia,"  which  could  not  veil  be  transferred  to  the  drama,  but 
which  is  very  eSectire,  and  adds,  I  think,  to  the  circumstantfa] 
horrors  of  the  story.  Desdemona  does  not  accidentally  drop  th« 
handkerchief;  it  is  stolen  from  her  by  lago's  little  :hild,  an 
in&nt  of  three  years  old,  whom  he  trains  and  bribes  to  the  theft 
The  loTe  of  Desdemona  for  this  child,  her  little  playfellow—  th« 
pretty  description  of  her  taking  it  in  her  arms  and  caressing  it, 
while  it  profits  by  its  situation  to  steal  the  handkerchief  troia 
her  bosom,  are  well  imagined,  and  beautifully  told;  and  tht 
llicamstance  of  lago  employing  his  own  innocent  child  as  tbl 
bwtrumeni  of  his  infernal  villany,  adds  a  deeper,  and,  in  truth 
U  unnecessary  touch  of  the  fiend,  to  bis  fiendish  chAracter. 


DESDEMO>"A.  247 

Ihe  position  of  anoAer,  and  imagining,  rather  than 
perceiving,  what  is  m  their  hearts.  Wc  women 
have  this  address  (if  so  it  can  be  called")  naturally, 
but  I  have  seldom  met  with  it  in  men.  It  is  not 
inconsistent  with  extreme  simplicity  of  character 
and  quite  distinct  from  that  kind  of  art  which  is 
the  result  of  natural  acuteness  and  habits  of  ob- 
Bervation — quick  to  perceive  the  foibles  of  others, 
tnd  as  quick  to  turn  them  to  its  own  purposes ; 
which  is  always  conscious  of  itself,  and,  if  united 
with  strong  intellect,  seldom  perceptible  to  others. 
In  the  mention  of  her  mother,  and  the  appeal  to 
Othello's  self-love,  Desdemona  has  no  design  formed 
on  conclusions  previously  drawn  ;  but  her  intuitive 
quickness  of  feeling,  added  to  her  imagination,  lead 
her  more  safely  to  the  same  results,  and  the  dis- 
tinction is  as  truly  as  it  is  delicately  drawn. 

When  Othello  first  outrages  her  in  a  manner 
which  appears  inexplicable,  she  seeks  and  finds 
excuses  for  him.  She  is  so  innocent  that  not  only 
ihe  cannot  believe  herself  suspected,  but  she  can- 
not conceive  the  existence  of  guilt  in  others. 

Sometaing,  sure,  of  state. 
Either  from  Venice,  or  some  unhatch'd  practice 
Made  demonstrable  iiere  in  Cyprus  to  him, 
Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit. 

'Tis  even  so— 
Nay,  we  most  think,  men  are  not  gods, 
Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observances 
As  fit  the  bridaL 

\nd  when  the  direct  accusation  of  crime  ia  flanf 


M       CHABACTER8   OF   THB  AFFECTIONS. 

on  her  in  tbe  vilest  terms,  it  does  not  anger  bol 
itun  her,  as  if  it  transfixed  her  whole  being ;  aba 
attempts  no  reply,  no  defence  ;  and  reproach  of 
resistance  never  enters  her  thought. 

Good  friend,  go  to  him — for  by  this  light  of  heaTea 
I  know  not  how  I  lost  him :  here  I  kneel : — 
If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love, 
Either  in  discourse  of  thought  or  actual  doed; 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense, 
Delighted  tliem  in  any  other  form ; 
Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did. 
And  ever  will,  though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement,  love  him  dearly, 
Comfort  forswear  me !     Unkindness  may  do  'Hi  eh, 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life, 
But  never  taint  my  love. 

And  there  is  one  stroke  of  consummate  delicacy 
surprising,  when  we  remember  the  latitude  of  ex« 
pression  prevailing  in  Shakspeare's  time,  and  whick 
he  allowed  to  his  other  women  generally :  she  &»/^ 
on  recovering  from  her  stupefaction — 

Am  I  that  name,  lago  ? 

lAOO. 

What  name,  sweet  lady? 

DESDEMONA. 

That  which  she  says  my  lord  did  say  I  was. 

60  completely  did  Shakspeare  enter  into  the  an* 
gelic  refinement  of  the  character. 

Endued  with  that  temper  which  is  the  origin  ot 
inperstition  in  love  as  >d  religion, — which,  in  fiu;i 


DKSDEMONA.  249 

aiAkea  love  itself  a  religion, — she  not  only  does  not 
utter  an  upbraiding,  but  nothing  that  Othello  does 
or  says,  no  outiage,  no  injustice,  can  tear  away  the 
charm  with  which  her  imagination  had  invested 
him,  or  impair  her  faith  in  his  honor ;  "  Would  you 
had  never  seen  him  ! "  exclaims  Emilia. 

DESDEMOKA. 

So  would  not  I ! — my  love  doth  so  approve  him, 
That  even  his  stubbornness,  his  checks  and  frowns 
Have  grace  and  favor  in  them. 

There  is  another  peculiarity,  which,  in  reading 
the  play  of  Othello,  we  rather  feel  than  perceive : 
through  the  whole  of  the  dialogue  appropriated  to 
Desdemona,  there  is  not  one  general  observation. 
Words  are  with  her  the  vehicle  of  sentiment,  and 
never  of  reflection  ;  so  that  I  cannot  find  through- 
out a  sentence  of  general  application.  The  same 
remark  applies  to  Miranda :  and  to  no  other  female 
character  of  any  importance  or  interest ;  not  even 
to  Ophelia. 

The  rest  of  what  I  wished  to  say  of  Desdemona, 
has  been  anticipated  by  an  anonymous  critic,  and 
BO  beautifully,  so  justly,  so  eloquently  expressed, 
that  I  with  pleeisure  erase  my  own  page,  to  maka 
room  for  his. 

"  Othello,"  observes  this  writer,  "  is  no  love 
■tory  ;  all  that  is  below  tragedy  in  the  passion  of 
love,  is  taken  away  at  once,  by  the  awful  character 
of  Othello ;  for  such  he  seems  to  us  to  be  designed 
CO  be.  He  appears  never  as  a  lover,  but  at  once 
18  a  husband :  and  the  relation  of  hb  love  madfl 


MO       CHARACIERS   OF   THE   AFFECT10W8. 

dignified,  as  it  is  a  husband's  justification  of  hii 
loarriage,  is  also  dignified,  as  it  is  a  soldier's  rela- 
tion of  his  stern  and  perilous  life.  His  love  itself, 
as  long  as  it  is  happy,  is  perfectly  calm  and  serene 
— ^the  protecting  tenderness  of  a  husband.  It  is  cot 
till  it  is  disordered,  that  it  appears  as  a  passion : 
then  is  shown  a  power  in  contention  with  itself— 
a  mighty  being  struck  with  death,  and  bringing  up 
from  all  the  depths  of  life  convulsions  and  agonies. 
It  is  no  exhibition  of  the  power  of  the  passion  of 
love,  but  of  the  passion  of  life,  vitally  wounded,  and 
self  over-mastering.  If  Desdemona  had  been  really 
guilty,  th*}  greatness  would  have  been  destroyed, 
because  his  love  would  have  been  unworthy,  false. 
But  she  is  good,  and  his  love  is  most  perfect,  just, 
and  good.  That  a  man  should  place  his  perfect 
love  on  a  wretched  thing,  is  miserably  debasing, 
and  shocking  to  thought ;  but  that  loving  perfectly 
and  well,  he  should  by  hellish  human  circumven* 
tion  be  brought  to  distrust  and  dread,  and  abjure 
his  own  perfect  love,  is  most  mournful  indeed — it 
is  the  infirmitj'  of  our  good  nature  wrestling  in  vain 
with  the  strong  powers  of  evil.  Moreover,  he 
would,  had  Desdemona  been  false,  have  been  the 
nere  victim  of  fate  ;  whereas  he  is  now  in  a  man^ 
ner  his  own  victim.  His  happy  love  was  hcroio 
tenderness ;  his  injured  love  is  terrible  passion  • 
and  disordered  power,  engendered  within  itself  to 
its  own  destruction,  is  the  height  of  all  tragedy. 

"  The  character  of  Othello  is  perhaps  the  nuMi 
greatly  drawn,  the  most  heroic  of  any  of  Shak» 


SESDEMOXA.  S5] 

peare's  actors ;  bat  it  is,  perhaps,  that  one  also  of 
which  his  reader  last  acquires  the  intelligence. 
The  intellectual  and  warlike  energy  of  his  mind — 
his  tenderness  of  affection — his  loftiness  of  spiri1>— 
his  frank,  generous  magnanimity — impetuosity  like 
a  thunderbolt — and  that  dark,  fierce  flood  of  boil- 
ing passion,  polluting  even  his  imagination, — com- 
pose a  character  entirely  original,  most  difficult  to 
delineate,  but  perfectly  delineated." 

Emilia  in  this  play  is  a  perfect  portrait  from  com- 
mon life,  a  masterpiece  in  the  Flemish  style :  and 
though  not  necessary  as  a  contrast,  it  cannot  be 
but  that  the  thorough  vulgarity,  the  loose  princi- 
ples of  this  plebeian  woman,  united  to  a  high  de- 
gree of  spirit,  energetic  feeling,  strong  sense  and 
low  cunning,  serve  to  place  in  brighter  relief  the 
exquisite  refinement,  the  moral  grace,  the  unblem^ 
ished  truth,  and  the  soft  submission  of  Desdemona. 

On  the  other  perfections  of  this  tragedy,  consid- 
ered as  a  production  of  genius — on  the  wonderful 
characters  of  Othello  and  lago — on  the  skill  with 
which  the  plot  is  conducted,  and  its  simplicity 
which  a  word  unravels,*  and  on  the  overpowering 
horror  of  the  catastrophe — eloquence  and  analyt- 
ical criticism  have  been  exhausted ;  I  will  only  add, 
that  the  source  of  the  ]»athos  throughout — of  thai 

*  Consequencea  ue  so  lii  ksd  together,  that  the  exclamation  «f 
BmlUa, 

0  thou  dull  Moor! — That  handkerchief  thou  speakest  of 

1  found  by  fortuae,  and  did  give  my  husband ! — 

b  aufflcient  to  reveal  to  Othello  the  whole  history  of  Ua  nda 


t52        CHARACTERS   OF   TUE   AFFECTIOMA. 

{ratlios  which  at  once  softens  and  deepens  the  tragl^ 
pffect — lies  in  the  character  of  Desdcmona.  No 
woman  differently  constituted  could  have  excited 
the  same  intense  and  painful  compassion,  ■without 
losinjr  something  of  that  exalted  charm,  which  in- 
vests her  from  beginning  to  end,  which  we  are  apd 
to  Impute  to  the  interest  of  the  situation,  and  to  the 
poetical  coloring,  but  which  lies,  in  fact,  in  the  very 
essence  of  the  character.  Desdemona,  with  all  her 
timid  flexibility  and  soft  acquiescence,  is  not  weak ; 
for  the  negative  alone  is  weak  ;  and  the  mere  pres- 
ence of  goodness  and  affection  implies  in  itself  a 
species  of  power  ;  power  without  consciousness, 
power  without  effort,  power  with  repose — that  soul 
of  grace  1 

I  know  a  Desdemona  in  real  life, one  in  whom  the 
absence  of  intellectual  power  is  never  felt  as  a  defi- 
ciency, noi  the  absence  of  energy  of  will  as  Impiur- 
ing  the  dignity,  nor  the  most  Imperturbable  serenity, 
as  a  want  of  feeling :  one  in  whom  thoughts  appear 
mere  instincts,  the  sentiment  of  rectitude  supplies 
the  principle,  and  virtue  itself  seems  rather  a  nec- 
essary state  of  being,  than  an  imposed  law.  No 
shade  of  sin  or  vanity  has  yet  stolen  over  that 
bright  Innocence.  No  discord  within  has  marred 
the  loveliness  without — no  strife  of  the  factitious 
world  without  has  disturbed  the  harmony  within. 
The  comprehension  of  evil  appears  forever  fhul 
out,  as  if  goodness  had  converted  all  things  to 
itself;  and  all  to  the  pure  In  heart  must  necessarily 
be  pure.     The  impression  produced  Is  exactly  thaf 


IMOGEN.  259 

(f  the  character  of  Desdemona ;  genius  is  a  rare 
thing,  but  abstract  goodness  is  rarer.  In  Desde- 
mona, we  cannot  but  feel  that  the  slightest  manifes- 
tation of  intellectual  power  or  active  will  would 
have  injured  the  dramatic  effect.  She  is  a  victim 
consecrated  from  the  first, — "  an  oflfering  without 
blemish,"  alone  worthy  of  the  grand  final  sacrifice  ; 
all  harmony,  all  grace,  all  purity,  all  tenderness,  all 
truth !  But,  alas !  to  see  her  fluttering  like  a 
cherub  in  the  talons  of  a  fiend ! — to  see  her — O 
poor  Desdemona  I 


IMOGEN. 

We  come  to  Imogen.  Others  of  Shakspeares 
characters  are,  as  dramatic  and  poetical  concep- 
tions, more  striking,  more  brilliant,  more  powerful ; 
but  of  all  his  women,  considered  as  individuals 
rather  than  as  heroines,  Imogen  is  the  most  perfect. 
Portia  and  Juliet  are  pictured  to  the  fancy  with 
more  force  of  contrast,  more  depth  of  light  and 
shade ;  Viola  and  Miranda,  with  moi-e  aerial  deli- 
cacy of  outline ;  but  there  is  no  female  portrait  that 
can  be  compared  to  Imogen  as  a  woman — none  in 
which  so  great  a  variety  of  tints  are  mingled  to- 
gethei  into  such  perfect  harmony.  In  her,  we  have 
til  the  fervor  of  youthful  tenderness,  all  the  ro- 
yiance  of  youthful  fancy,  all  the  enchantment  of 
Jeal  grace, — the  bloom  of  beauty,  the  brightneai 
%f  intellect  and  the  dignity  of  rank,  taking  a  pe- 


254        CHAUACTERS   OF   THE   APyECTIOITS. 

culiar  hue  from  the  conjugal  character  which  il 
ehed  over  all,  like  a  consecration  and  a  holy  charm. 
In  Othello  and  the  Winter's  Tale,  the  interest  ex- 
cited for  Dcsderaona  and  Hermione  is  divided  with 
others :  but  in  Cynabeline,  Imogen  is  the  angel  of 
light,  whose  lovely  presence  pervades  and  animatei 
the  whole  piece.  The  character  altogether  may  he 
pronounced  finer,  more  complex  in  its  elements, 
and  more  fully  developed  in  all  its  parts,  than  those 
of  Hermione  and  Desdemona ;  but  the  position  in 
which  she  is  placed  is  not,  I  think,  so  fine — at  lea«t, 
not  so  efiective,  as  a  tragic  situation. 

Shakspeare  has  borrowed  the  chief  circumstance* 
of  Imogen's  story  from  one  of  Boccaccio's  tales.* 

A  company  of  Italian  merchants  who  are  assem- 
bled in  a  tavern  at  Paris,  are  represented  as  con- 
Tersing  on  the  subject  of  their  wives  :  all  of  them 
express  themselves  with  levity,  or  sekpticism,  oi 
BCorn,  on  the  virtue  of  women,  except  a  young 
Gtnoese  merchant  named  Bemabo,  who  maintains, 
that  by  the  especial  favor  of  Heaven  he  possesses  a 
wife  no  less  chaste  than  beautiful.  Heated  by  the 
wine,  and  excited  by  the  arguments  and  the  coarse 
raillery  of  another  young  merchant,  Ambrogiolo, 
Bemabo  proceeds  to  enumerate  the  various  perfec- 
tions and  accomplishments  of  his  Zinevra.  He 
praises  her  loveliness,  her  submission,  and  her  di»> 
cretion — her  skill  in  embroidery,  her  graceful  ser» 
Tice,  in  which  the  best  trained  page  of  the  court 
oonld  not  exceed  her ;  and  he  adds,  as  rarer  ao- 
*  D«e»merone.    Novella,  9mo.    Oiornkte.  2do. 


85a 


complishments,  that  she  could  mount  a  horse,  fly  a 
bawk,  write  and  read,  and  cast  up  accounts,  as  well 
ks  any  merchant  of  them  all.  His  enthusiasm  only 
excites  the  laughter  and  mockery  of  his  compan- 
ions, particularly  of  Ambrogiolo,  who,  by  the  most 
artful  mixture  of  contradiction  and  argument, 
rouses  the  anger  of  Bernabo,  and  he  at  length  ex- 
claims, that  he  would  willingly  stake  his  life,  his  head, 
on  the  virtue  of  his  wife.  This  leads  to  the  wager 
which  fonns  so  important  an  incident  in  the  drama. 
Ambrogiolo  bets  one  thousand  florins  of  gold 
against  five  thousand,  that  Zinevra,  like  the  rest  of 
her  sex,  is  accessible  to  temptation — that  in  lesa 
than  three  months  he  will  undermine  her  virtue, 
and  bring  her  husband  the  most  undeniable  proofs 
of  her  falsehood.  He  sets  ofl"  for  Genoa,  in  order 
Ip  accomplish  his  purpose ;  but  on  his  arrival,  all 
khat  he  learns,  and  all  that  he  beholds  with  hjs  own 
eyes,  of  the  discreet  and  noble  character  of  the 
lady,  make  him  despair  of  success  by  fair  means ; 
he  therefore  has  recourse  to  the  basest  treachery. 
By  bribing  an  old  woman  in  the  service  of  Zin- 
evra, he  is  conveyed  to  her  sleeping  apartment,  con- 
cealed in  a  trunk,  from  which  he  issues  in  the  dead 
of  the  night ;  he  takes  note  of  the  furniture  of  the 
chamber,  makes  himself  master  of  her  purse,  her 
morning  robe,  or  cymar,  and  her  girdle,  and  of  a 
certain  mark  on  her  person.  He  repeats  these  ob- 
servations for  two  nighta.  and,  furnished  with  these 
evidences  of  Zinevra's  guilt,  he  returns  to  Paris, 
tnd  lays  them  before  the  wretched  husband.    B<Ji^ 


868        CHARACTERS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 

nabo  rejects  eveiy  proof  of  his  wife's  infidelitj 
except  that  which  finally  convinces  Posthumoa 
When  Ambrogiolo  mentions  the  "  mole,  cinque" 
ipotted,"  he  stands  like  one  who  has  received  a 
poniard  in  his  heart ;  without  further  dispute  he 
pays  down  the  forfeit,  and  filled  with  rage  and 
despair  both  at  the  loss  of  his  money  and  the  false- 
hood of  his  wife,  he  returns  towards  Genoa ;  he 
retires  to  his  country  house,  and  sends  a  messenger 
to  the  city  with  lettars  to  Zinevra,  desiring  that  she 
would  come  and  meet  him,  but  with  secret  orderj 
to  the  man  to  despatch  her  by  the  way.  The  ser- 
Tant  prepares  to  execute  his  master's  command, 
but  overcome  by  her  entreaties  for  mercy,  and  hia 
own  remorse,  he  spares  her  life,  on  condition  that 
she  will  fly  from  the  country  forever.  He  then 
disguises  her  in  his  own  cloak  and  cap,  and  brings 
back  to  her  husband  the  assurance  that  she  is 
killed,  and  that  her  body  has  been  devoured  by  th« 
wolves.  In  the  disguise  of  a  mariner,  Zinevra 
then  embarks  on  boani  a  vessel  bound  to  the  Le- 
vant, and  on  arriving  at  Alexandria,  she  is  taken 
into  the  service  of  the  Sultan  of  Egypt,  under  the 
name  of  Sicurano ;  she  gains  the  confidence  of  her 
master,  who,  not  suspecting  her  sex,  sends  her  aa 
captain  of  the  guard  which  was  appointed  for  the 
pn)tection  of  the  merchants  at  the  fair  of  Acre. 
Here  she  accidentally  meets  Ambrogiolo,  and  sees 
in  his  possession  the  purse  and  girdle,  which  she 
immediately  recognizes  as  her  own.  In  reply  tc 
her  inquiries,  he  relates  with  fiendish  exul^atioB 


IMOGEN.  257 

the  manner  in  which  he  had  obtained  possession  of 
them,  and  she  persuades  him  to  go  back  with  her 
to  Alexandria.  She  then  sends  a  messenger  to 
Genoa  in  the  name  of  the  Sultan,  and  induces  her 
husband  to  come  and  settle  in  Alexandria.  At  a 
proper  opportunity,  she  summons  both  to  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Sultan,  obliges  Ambrogiolo  to  make  a 
full  confession  of  his  treachery,  and  wrings  from 
her  husband  the  avowal  of  his  supposed  murder  of 
herself :  then  falling  at  the  feet  of  the  Sultan  dis- 
covers her  real  name  and  sex,  to  the  great  amaze- 
ment of  all.  Bernabo  is  pardoned  at  the  prayer 
of  his  wife,  and  Ambrogiolo  is  condemned  to  be 
fastened  to  a  stake,  smeared  with  honey,  and  left 
to  be  devoured  by  the  flies  and  locusts.  This  hor- 
rible sentence  is  executed ;  whUe  Zinevra,  enriched 
by  the  presents  of  the  Sultan,  and  the  forfeit  wealth 
of  Ambrogiolo,  returns  with  her  husband  to  Genoa, 
where  she  lives  in  great  honor  and  happiness,  and 
maintains  her  reputation  of  virtue  to  the  end  of 
her  life. 

These  are  the  materials  from  which  Shakspeare 
has  draw  the  dramatic  situation  of  Imogen.  He 
has  also  endowed  her  with  several  of  the  qualities 
which  are  attributed  to  Zinevra ;  but  for  the  essen- 
tial truth  and  beauty  of  the  individual  character, 
for  the  sweet  coloring  of  pathos,  and  sentiment, 
and  poetry  interfused  through  the  whole,  he  is  in- 
debted onl)-  to  nature  and  himself. 

It  would  be  a  waste  of  words  to  refute  certain 
uitics  who  have  accused  Shakspeare  of  a  want  of 


S.IS        CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 

judgment  in  the  adoption  of  the  story  ;  of  having 
transferred  the  manners  of  a  set  of  intoxicated 
merchants  and  a  merchant's  wife  to  heroes  and 
princesses,  and  of  having  entirely  destroyed  the 
interest  of  the  catastrophe.*  The  truth  is,  that 
Shakspeare  has  wrought  out  the  materials  before 
him  with  the  most  luxuriant  fancy  and  the  most 
wonderful  skill.  As  for  the  various  anachronisms, 
and  the  confusion  of  names,  dates,  and  manners, 
over  which  Dr.  Johnson  exults  in  no  measured 
terms,  the  confusion  is  nowhere  but  in  his  own 
heavy  obtuseness  of  sentiment  and  perception,  and 
his  want  of  poetical  faith.  Look  into  the  old  Italian 
poets,  whom  we  read  continually  with  still  increas- 
ing pleasure ;  does  any  one  think  of  sitting  down 
to  disprove  the  existence  of  Ariodante,  king  of 
Scotland  ?  or  to  prove  that  the  mention  of  Proteus 
and  Pluto,  baptism  and  the  Virgin  Mary,  in  a 
breath,  amounts  to  an  anachronism  ?  Shakspeare, 
by  throwing  his  story  far  back  into  a  remote  and 
uncertain  age,  has  blended,  by  his  "  own  omnipo- 
tent will,"  the  marvellous,  the  heroic,  the  ideal, 
and  the  classical, — the  extreme  of  refinement  and 
the  extreme  of  simplicity, — into  one  of  the  loveliest 
fictions  of  romantic  poetry ;  and,  to  use  Schlegel's 
expression,  "  has  made  the  social  manners  of  th« 
latest  times  harmonize  with  heroic  deeds,  and  eyen 
Irith  the  appearances  of  the  gods-f 
But,  admirable  as  is  the  conduct  of  the  wbola 

•  VitU  Dr.  Johnson,  and  Dunlop'g  Hiatory  of  Flcaora. 

t  Bm  Haalitt  and  Sch]eg«l  on  the  catastrophe  of  Oymbelin* 


IMOGEN.  251 

play,  rich  in  variety  of  character  and  in  pictu- 
resque incident,  its  chief  beauty  and  interest  ia 
derived  from  Imogen. 

When  Ferdinand  tells  Miranda  that  she  waa 
**  created  of  every  creature's  best,"  he  speaks  like 
a  lover,  or  refers  only  to  her  personal  charms :  the 
same  expression  might  be  applied  critically  to  the 
character  of  Imogen ;  for,  as  the  portrait  of  Miranda 
is  produced  by  resolving  the  female  character  into 
its  original  elements,  so  that  of  Imogen  unites  the 
greatest  number  of  those  qualities  which  we  imag- 
ine to  constitute  excellency  in  woman. 

Imogen,  like  Juliet,  conveys  to  our  mind  the 
impression  of  extreme  simplicity  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  wouderful  complexity.  To  conceive  her  aright, 
we  must  take  some  peculiar  tint  from  many  char- 
acters, and  so  mingle  them,  that,  like  the  combina- 
tion of  hues  in  a  sunbeam,  the  efiect  shall  be  aa 
one  to  the  eye.  We  must  imagine  something  of 
the  romantic  enthusiasm  of  J'^aiet,  of  the  truth  and 
constancy  of  Helen,  of  the  dignified  purity  of 
Isabel,  of  the  tender  sweetness  of  Viola,  of  the  self- 
possession  and  intellect  of  Portia — combined  to- 
gether so  equally  and  so  harmoniously,  that  we  can 
scarcely  say  that  one  quality  predominates  over 
4he  other.  But  Imogen  is  less  imaginative  than 
•Juliet,  less  spirited  and  intellectual  than  Portia, 
less  serious  than  Helen  and  Isabel;  her  dignity  ia 
Dot  so  imposing  as  that  of  Hermione,  it  stands  more 
•n  the  defensive ',  her  submission,though  unbounded, 
«  not  60  passive  as  that  of  Desdemona ;  and  thii% 


160        CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIOHS 

while  she  resembles  each  of  these  character*  fn* 
dividually,  she  stands  wholly  distinct  from  all. 

It  is  true,  that  the  conjugal  tenderness  of  Imogen 
is  at  once  the  chief  subject  of  the  drama,  and  the 
pervading  charm  of  her  character ;  but  it  is  not 
true,  I  think,  that  she  is  merely  interesting  fnxn 
her  tenderness  and  constancy  to  her  husband.  We 
are  BO  completely  let  into  the  essence  of  Imogen's 
nature,  that  we  feel  as  if  we  had  known  and  loved 
her  before  she  was  married  to  Posthumus,  and 
that  her  conjugal  virtues  are  a  charm  superadded, 
like  the  color  laid  upon  a  beautiful  groundwork. 
Neither  does  it  appear  to  me,  that  Posthumus  is 
unworthy  of  Imogen,  or  only  interesting  on  Imogen's 
account.  His  character,  like  those  of  all  the  other 
persons  of  the  drama,  is  kept  subordinate  to  hers : 
but  this  could  not  be  otherwise,  for  she  is  the  proper 
subject — the  heroine  of  the  poem.  Every  thing  ia 
done  to  ennoble  Posthumus,  and  justify  her  love 
for  him ;  and  though  we  certainly  approve  him 
more  for  her  sake  than  for  his  own,  we  are  early 
prepared  to  view  him  with  Imogen's  eyes ;  and  not 
only  excuse,  but  sympathize  in  her  admiration  of 
one 

Who  sat  'mongst  men  like  a  descended  god. 

«  «  «  «  « 

Who  lived  in  court,  which  it  is  rare  to  do, 
Most  praised,  most  loved : 
A  sample  to  the  youngest;  to  the  more  mature, 
A  glass  that  feated  them. 

4nd  with  what  beauty  and  delicacy  is  her  conji.j% 


IMOGEK.  261 

taA  matronly  character  discriminated  !  Her  love 
for  her  husband  is  as  deep  as  Juliet's  for  her  lover, 
but  without  any  of  that  headlong  vehemence,  that 
fluttering  amid  hope,  fear,  and  transport — that 
giddy  intoxication  of  heart  and  sense,  -which  be- 
longs  to  the  novelty  of  passion,  which  we  feel  once, 
and  but  once,  in  our  lives.  We  see  her  love  for 
Posthumus  acting  upon  her  mind  with  the  force  of 
an  habitual  feeling,  heightened  by  enthusiastio 
passion,  and  hallowed  by  the  sense  of  duty.  She 
Bsaerts  and  justifies  her  affection  with  energy  in- 
deed, but  with  a  calm  and  wife-like  dignity : — 

CTMBELINB. 

Thou  took'st  a  beggar,  would'st  have  made  my  throne 
A  seat  for  baseness. 

IMOOEN. 

No,  I  rather  added  a  lustre  to  it 

CTMBBLINB. 

0  thou  vile  one  I 

IMOGEN. 

Sir, 
It  is  your  fault  that  I  have  loved  Posthumus; 
You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow,  and  he  is 
A  man  worth  any  woman;  overbuys  me, 
Almost  the  sum  he  pays. 

Compare  also,  as  examples  of  the  most  delicate 
liscrimination  of  character  and  feeling,  the  parting 
jcene  oetween  Imogen  and  Posthumus,  that  between 
Somec  and  Juliet,  and  that  between  Troilus  and 


262        CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONSt 

Cressida :  compare  the  confiding  matronly  tendeik 
tiess,  the  deep  but  resigned  sorrow  of  Imogen,  with 
the  despairing  agony  of  Juliet,  and  the  petulant 
grief  of  Cressida. 

When  Posthumus  is  driven  into  exile,  he 
to  take  a  last  farewell  of  his  wife : — 


iMoosir. 

My  dearest  husband, 
I  something  fear  my  father's  wrnth,  but  nothing 
(Always  reserved  my  holy  duty)  what 
His  rage  can  do  on  me.    You  must  be  gone, 
And  I  shall  here  abide  the  hourly  shot 
Of  angry  eyes :  not  comforted  to  live. 
But  that  there  is  this  jewel  in  the  world 
That  I  may  see  again. 

POSTHUMUS. 

My  queen !  my  mistress  I 
0,  lady,  weep  no  more !  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man.    I  will  remain 
The  loyal'st  husband  that  did  e'er  plight  trotk 
«  «  «  «  « 

Should  we  be  taking  leave 
As  long  a  term  as  yet  we  have  to  live. 
The  loathness  to  depart  would  grow — Adieu  1 

IMOOBM. 

Nay,  stay  a  little: 

Wore  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself, 
Such  parting  were  too  petty.    Look  here,  lor*, 
This  diamond  was  m-  mother's ;  take  it,  heart' 
But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 
When  Imogen  is  deadl 


IMOGEN.  283 

Imogen,  m  whose  tenderness  there  is  nothing 
jealous  or  fantastic,  does  not  seriously  apprehend 
that  her  husband  will  woo  another  wife  when  she 
is  dead.  It  is  one  of  those  fond  fancies  which 
women  are  apt  to  express  in  moments  of  feeling, 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a  protestation 
to  the  contrary.  When  Posthumus  leaves  her,  she 
does  not  burst  forth  in  eloquent  lamentation ;  but 
that  silent,  stunning,  overwhelming  sorrow,  which 
renders  the  mind  insensible  to  all  things  else,  if 
represented  with  equal  force  and  simplicity. 

IMOGEN. 

There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death 
More  sharp  than  this  is. 

CTMBBLINB. 

0  disloyal  thing, 
That  should'st  repair  my  youth ;  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  met 

IMOGEN. 

I  beseech  you,  sir. 
Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation;  I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath;  a  touch  more  rare  * 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

OYMBELINE. 

Past  grace?  obedience? 

IMOGEN. 

Past  hope^  and  in  despair — that  way  past  grace. 
in  the  same  circumstances,  the  impetuous  excited 
*  Mora  rue— t.  «.  more  ex^uisitelr  poigiuuLt. 


B64        CHARACTERS    OF   THE   AFIECTIONt. 

feelings  of  Juliet,  and  her  vivid  imagination,  lend 
■omething  far  more  wildly  agitated,  more  intenselj 
poetical  and  passionate  to  her  grief. 

JULIBT. 

Art  thou  gone  80?    My  love,  my  lord,  my  friend! 
I  must  hear  from  thee  every  day  i'  the  hour, 
For  in  a  minute  there  are  many  days — 

0  by  this  count  I  shall  be  much  in  years, 
Ere  I  again  behold  my  Romeo  I 

ROMEO. 

Farewell  I  I  will  omit  no  opportunity 

That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to  thee. 

JULIKT. 

0 1  think'st  thou  we  shall  ever  meet  ag^n? 

BOHEO. 

I  doubt  it  not;  and  all  these  woes  shall  serv* 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

JULIET. 

0  God  I  I  have  an  ill-divining  soul: 
Methinks  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  below, 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb : 
Either  my  eye-sight  faUs,  or  thou  look'st  pale, 

We  have  no  sympathy  with  the  pouting  di* 
appointment  of  Cressida,  which  is  just  like  that  of 
a  spoilt  child  which  has  lost  its  sugar-plum,  without 
tenderness,  passions,  or  poetry :  and,  in  short,  per 
fectly  characteristic  of  that  vain,  fickle,  d'ssolutft 
keartless  woman, — "  unstable  as  water." 


IMOGEN.  968 

CRESSIDA. 

And  is  it  tame  that  I  mnst  go  from  Troy? 

TROILUS. 

A  hateM  tmth. 

CRESSIDA. 

What,  and  from  Troflm  too! 

TKOILU8. 

From  Troy  and  Trcilus. 

CRESSIDA. 

Isitpoasible? 

TROILX7S, 

And  suddenly, 

CRESSIDA. 

I  most  then  to  the  Greeks  ? 

TROILUS. 

No  remedy. 

CRESSIDA. 

A  woeful  Cressid  'mongst  the  merry  Greeks  1 
When  shall  we  see  again? 

TROILrS. 

Hear  me,  my  love.    Be  thou  but  true  of  heart— 

CRESSIDA. 

I  true  I    How  now?  what  wicked  de«tm  is  this? 

T30n.VB. 

Nay,  we  must  use  expostulation  kindly, 
For  it  is  parting  from  us ; 
I  speak  not,  be  thou  true,  as  fearing  thee; 
For  I  will  throw  my  glove  to  Death  himseit 


tit        CUABACTERS  OF  THB  AFFECTIOITB. 

That  there's  no  macniation  in  thy  heart ; 
Bat  be  thoa  true,  say  I,  to  fashion  in 
My  sequent  protestation.    Be  then  tme, 
And  I  will  see  thee. 

CBBSSn>A.{ 

0  heaveci !  be  trae  again— 
O  heavens  I  you  love  me  not 

TKOILU8. 

Die  I  a  villain,  then ! 
In  this  I  do  not  call  your  faith  in  question, 
So  mainly  as  my  merit — 

But  be  not  tempted. 

OBBSSmA. 

Do  you  think  I  will? 

*  *  *  *  * 

In  the  eagerness  of  Imogen  to  meet  her  husband 
there  is  all  a  wife's  fondness,  mixed  up  with  the 
breathless  hurry  arising  from  a  sudden  and  joyftii 
lurprise  ;  but  nothing  of  the  picturesque  eloquence, 
the  ardent,  exuberant,  Italian  imagination  of  Juliet, 
who,  to  gratify  her  impatience,  would  have  her 
heralds  thoughts ; — press  into  her  service  the  nim- 
ble pinioned  doves,  and  wind-swift  Cupids, — change 
the  course  of  nature,  and  lash  the  steeds  of  Phoeboa 
to  the  west.  Imogen  only  thinks  "  one  score  of 
miles,  'twixt  sun  and  sun,"  slow  travelling  for  a 
lover,  and  wishes  for  a  horse  with  wings — 

O  for  a  horse  with  wings  I    Hear'st  thou,  Pioanio? 
He  is  at  Mllford  Haven.    Read,  and  tell  me 


IMOGEN.  26' 

How  far  'tis  thitlier.    If  one  of  mean  affairs 
May  plod  it  in  a  week,  why  may  not  I 
Glide  thithir  in  a  day?     Then,  true  Pisanio, 
(Who  long's!"  like  me,  to  see  thy  lord — who  long'sfr— 
0  let  me  bate,  but  not  like  me — ^j-et  long'st, 
But  in  a  fainter  kind — 0  not  like  me, 
For  mine's  beyond  beyond,)  say,  and  speak  thick— 
(Love's  counsellor  should  fill  the  bores  of  hearing 
To  the  smothering  of  the  sense) — how  far  is  it 
To  this  same  blessed  Milford  ?    And  by  the  way. 
Tell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy,  as 
To  inherit  such  a  haven.   But,  first  of  all, 
How  we  may  steal  from  hence ;  and  for  the  gap 
That  we  shall  make  in  time,  from  our  hence  going 
And  our  return,  to  excuse.    But  first,  how  get  hence* 
Why  should  excuse  be  bom,  or  e'er  begot  ? 
We'll  talk  of  that  hereafter.     Pr'ythee  speak, 
How  many  score  of  miles  may  we  well  ride 
•Twixt  hour  and  hour? 

PISANIO. 

One  score,  'twixt  sun  and  sun, 
Madam,'s  enough  for  you;  and  too  much  too. 

IMOGEN. 

Why,  one  that  rode  to  his  execution,  man, 
Gould  never  go  so  slow  I 

There  are  two  or  three  other  passages  bearing 
Dn  the  conjugal  tenderness  of  Imogen,  which  must 
36  noticed  for  the  extreme  intensity  of  the  feeling, 
"^od  the  unadorned  elegance  of  the  expression. 

f  would  thou  grew'st  unto  toe  shores  o'  the  haven 
And  question' dst  every  sail :  if  he  should  write, 
And  I  not  have  it,  'twere  %  paper  lost 


f68        OHARAOrERS  oF  THS   A.FFECTIUHS. 

As  offer' J  mercy  is.    What  was  the  last 
That  he  spake  to  thee  ? 

PISASIO. 

'Twas,  His  queen!  his  qnaaat 

IHOOEir. 

Then  war'd  his  hankerchief  ? 

PISANIO. 

And  kiss'd  it,  ™«il«.»n. 

IMOGEN. 

Senseless  linen !  happier  therein  than  1 1 — 
And  that  was  all? 

PISANIO. 

No,  madam;  for  so  long 
As  he  conld  make  me  with  this  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 
The  deok,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief 
Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of  his  mind 
Conld  best  express  how  slow  his  sonl  sail'd  on. 
How  swift  his  ship. 

IMOGEN. 

Thou  shonld'st  have  made  him 
As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 

PISANia 

Madam,  so  I  did. 

mooBS. 
1  wonld  have  broke  my  eye-strings ;  cracked  thea,  bit 
To  look  upon  him;  till  the  diminution 
Of  spEu:e  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle; 
Nay,  followed  him,  till  he  had  melted  freca 
The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air;  and  then 
Have  tnm'd  mine  eye,  and  wept. 


iMoaEX.  261 

Two  little  incidents,  which  are  introduced  with 
the  most  unobtrusive  simplicity,  convey  the  strong- 
est impression  of  her  tenderness  for  her  husband, 
Bnd  with  that  perfect  unconsciousness  on  her  part, 
which  adds  to  the  effect.     Thus  when  she  has  lost 

her  bracelet — 

Go,  bid  my  woman 
Search  for  a  jewel,  that  too  casually, 
Hath  left  my  arm.    It  was  thy  master's:  'shrew  ms, 
If  I  would  lose  it  for  a  revenue 
Of  any  king  in  Europe.    I  do  think 
I  saw't  this  morning;  confident  I  am, 
Last  night  'twas  on  mine  arm — 1  kiis'd  U. 
J  hope  it  has  not  gone  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I  kiss  aught  but  he. 

It  has  been  well  observed,  that  our  consciousnen 
that  the  bracelet  is  really  gone  to  bear  false  witness 
against  her,  adds  an  inexpressibly  touching  effect 
to  the  simplicity  and  tenderness  of  the  sentiment. 

And  again,  when  she  opens  her  bosom  to  meet 
the  death  to  which  her  husband  has  doomed  her, 
ihe  finds  his  letters  preserved  next  her  heart. 

What's  hero  I 
"the  letters  of  the  \ojsX  Leonatns  ? — 
Soft,  we'll  no  defence. 

The  scene  in  which  Posthumus  stakes  his  nng 
on  the  virtue  of  his  wife,  and  gives  lachimo  pep- 
mission  to  tempt  her,  is  taken  from  the  story.  The 
baseness  and  folly  of  such  conduct  have  been  justly 
censured  ;  but  Shakspeare,  feeling  that  Posthumus 
needed  every  excuse,  has  managed  the  quarrelling 
«oene  between  him  and  lachimo  with  the  most  ad< 


170        CHARACTERS   OF   THB   AFFKCTIONS. 

mirable  skill.  The  manner  in  which  his  high  spirit 
is  gradually  worked  up  by  the  taunts  of  this  ItaliaT' 
fiend,  is  contrived  with  far  more  probability,  and 
much  less  coarseness,  than  in  the  original  tale.  In 
the  end  he  is  not  the  challenger,  but  the  challenged; 
and  could  hardly  (except  on  a  moral  principle, 
much  too  refined  for  those  rude  times)  have  declined 
the  wager  without  compromising  his  own  courage 
and  his  faith  in  the  honor  of  Imogen. 

lACHIHO. 

f  durst  attempt  it  against  any  lady  in  the  woiid. 

POSTHUMD8. 

Yon  are  a  great  deal  abused  in  too  bold  a  persuasion; 
and  I  doubt  not  you  sustain  what  you're  worthy  ofj  by 
yocr  attempt. 

lACHIMO. 

What's  that? 

POSTHUMUS. 

A  repulse:  though  your  attempt,  as  you  call  it,  deserrt 
more — a  punishment  too. 

PHItu\RIO. 

Gentlemen,  enough  of  this.  It  came  in  too  suddenly 
let  it  die  as  it  was  bom,  and  I  pray  you  be  better  ao* 
qnainted. 

lACHIMO. 

Would  I  had  put  my  estate  and  my  neighbor's  on  the 
approbation  of  what  I  have  said  I 

POSTHOMCB. 

What  lady  would  you  choose  to  assaQ? 

lAOHIMO. 

Toon,  whom  in  constancy  you  think  stands  to  safe 


IMOGEN.  271 

In  the  interview  between  Imogen  and  lachimo, 
he  does  not  begin  his  attack  on  her  virtue  by  a 
direct  accusation  against  Posthumus ;  but  by  dark 
hints  a/id  half-uttered  insinuations,  such  as  lago 
uses  to  madden  Othello,  he  intimates  that  her  hus- 
band, in  his  absence  from  her,  has  betrayed  her  love 
and  truth,  and  forgotten  her  in  the  arms  of  another. 
All  that  Imogen  says  in  this  scene  is  comprised  in  a 
few  lines — a  brief  question,  or  a  more  brief  remark. 
The  proud  and  delicate  reserve  with  which  she 
veils  the  anguish  she  suffers,  is  inimitably  beautiful. 
The  strongest  expression  of  reproach  he  can  draw 
from  her,  is  only,  "  My  lord,  I  fear,  has  forgot 
Britain."  When  he  continues  in  the  same  strain, 
she  exclaims  in  an  agony,  "  Let  me  hear  no  more." 
When  he  urges  her  to  revenge,  she  asks,  with  all 
the  simplicity  of  virtue,  "  How  should  I  be  re- 
venged V  "  And  when  he  explains  to  her  how  she 
is  to  be  avenged,  her  sudden  burst  of  indignation, 
and  her  immediate  perception  of  his  treachery, 
and  the  motive  for  it,  are  powei'fuUy  fine:  it  is 
not  only  the  anger  of  a  woman  whose  delicacy  has 
been  shocked,  but  the  spirit  of  a  princess  insulted 
in  her  court. 

Away  I  I  do  condemn  mine  ears,  that  have 
So  long  attended  thee.    If  thou  wert  honorable, 
Thou  would' st  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue  not 
For  such  an  end  thou  seek'st,  as  base  as  strange 
Thou  wrong' st  a  gentleman,  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report  as  thou  from  honor;  and 
Solicit'st  here  a  lady  that  disdains 
Thee  aod  tne  devU  alike. 


872       CHABACTBR8   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  "  her  readiness  t« 
pardon  lachimo's  false  imputation,  and  bis  designs 
against  herself,  is  a  good  lesson  to  prudes,  and  may 
show  that  where  there  is  a  real  attachment  to  virtue, 
there  is  no  need  of  an  outrageous  antipathy  t« 
vice."* 

This  is  true  ;  but  can  we  fail  to  perceive  that  the 
instant  and  ready  forgiveness  of  Imogen  is  ac- 
counted for,  and  rendered  more  graceful  and  chap* 
acteristic  by  the  very  means  which  lachimo  employs 
to  win  it  ?  He  pours  forth  the  most  enthusiastic 
praises  of  her  husband,  professes  that  he  merely 
made  this  trial  of  her  out  of  his  exceeding  love  for 
Posthumus,  and  she  is  pacified  at  once  ;  but,  with 
exceeding  delicacy  of  feeling,  she  is  represented  as 
maintaining  her  dignified  reserve  and  her  brevity 
of  speech  to  the  end  of  the  scene,  f 

We  must  also  observe  how  beautifully  the  char- 
acter of  Imogen  is  distinguished  from  those  of  De»- 
demona  and  Hermione.  When  she  is  made  ac- 
quainted with  her  husband's  cruel  suspicions,  we 
see  in  her  deportment  neither  the  meek  submission 
of  the  former,  nor  the  calm  resolute  dignity  of  the 
latter.  The  first  effect  produced  on  her  by  her 
husband's  letter  is  conveyed  to  the  fancy  by  the 
exclamation  of  Fisanio,  who  is  gazing  on  her  as  sht 
reads. — 

What  shall  I  need  to  draw  my  8 vord?    The  paper 

tOluuracten  uf  Shakppeare's  Play*. 
Wid*  Mt  i.  seen*  7. 


IMOGEN.  278 

Has  cut  ber  ttiroat  already !    No,  'tis  slander, 
Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword ! 

And  in  her  first  exclamations  "we  trace,  besides  as- 
tonishment and  anguish,  and  the  acute  sense  of  the 
injustice  inflicted  on  her,  a  flash  of  indignant  spirit, 
which  \fe  do  not  find  in  Desdemona  or  Hermione, 

False  to  his  bed ! — What  is  it  to  be  false  ? 

To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  of  him  ? 

To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock  ?  If  sleep  charge  nature, 

To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him, 

And  cry  myself  awake  ? — that's  false  to  his  bed, 

iBit? 

This  is  followed  by  that  affecting  lamentation 
over  the  falsehood  and  injustice  of  her  husband,  in 
which  she  betrays  no  atom  of  jealousy  or  wounded 
self-love,  but  observes  in  the  extremity  of  her  an- 
guish, that  after  his  lapse  from  truth,  "  all  good 
seeming  would  be  discredited,"  and  she  then  re- 
signs herself  to  his  will  with  the  most  entire  sub- 
mission. 

In  the  original  story,  Zinevra  prevails  on  the 
servant  to  spare  her,  by  her  exclamations  and  en- 
treaties for  mercy.  "  The  lady,  seeing  the  poniard, 
and  hearing  those  words,  exclaimed  in  terror, 
'  Alas  !  have  pity  on  me  for  the  love  of  Heaven  I 
do  not  become  the  slayer  of  one  who  never  offend- 
ed thee,  only  to  pleasure  another.  Grod,  who 
knows  all  things,  knows  that  I  have  never  done 
that  which  could  merit  such  a  reward  trom  m/ 
Vnsband's  hand.' " 

U 


174       CHAPACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIOW*. 

Now  let  us  turn  to  Shakspeare.    Imogen  saji^* 

Come,  fellow,  be  thoa  honest; 
Do  thoa  thy  master's  bidding:  when  thou  seest  hia, 
A  little  witness  my  obedience.    Look  I 
I  draw  the  sword  myself;  take  it,  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  my  love,  my  heart. 
Fear  not;  'tis  empty  of  all  things  but  grief: 
Thy  master  is  not  there,  who  was,  indeed, 
The  riches  of  it.    Do  his  bidding;  strike! 

The  devoted  attachment  of  Pisanio  to  his  ro^ 
mistress,  all  through  the  piece,  is  one  of  those  side 
touches  by  which  Shakspeare  knew  how  to  give 
additional  effect  to  his  characters. 

Cloten  is  odious ;  *  but  we  must  not  overlook  the 
peculiar  fitness  and  propriety  of  his  character,  in 
connection  with  that  of  Imogen.  He  is  precisely 
the  kind  of  man  who  would  be  most  intolerable  to 
such  a  woman.    He  is  a  fool, — eo  is  Slender,  and 


*  The  character  of  Cloten  bas  been  prononneed  by  womt  urn- 
natural,  by  others  incoiiBistent,  and  by  others  obsolete.  Th« 
fbllowing  passage  occurs  in  one  of  JUss  Seward's  letters,  Tol.  iU 
p.  246:  "It  is  curious  that  Shakspeare  should,  in  so  singular  a 
character  as  Cloten,  have  giTen  the  exact  prototype  of  a  bring 
whom  I  once  knew.  The  unmeaning  frown  of  countenance,  th* 
■buflUng  gait,  the  burst  of  voice,  the  bustling  insignificance,  th* 
fever  and  ague  fits  of  valor,  the  froward  tetchiness,  the  unprin- 
cipled malice,  and,  what  is  more  curious,  those  occasional  gleamj 
of  good  sense  amidst  the  floating  clouds  of  folly  which  generally 
darkened  and  confused  the  man's  brain,  and  which,  in  the  char- 
acter of  Cloten,  we  are  apt  to  impute  to  a  violation  of  unity  ia 

titaracter ;  but  in  the  some-time  Captain  C ,  I  saw  that  thf 

Kraait  of  Cloten  was  not  out  of  nature." 


275 


8ii  Andrew  Aguecheek  :  but  the  folly  of  Clotea  u 
not  only  ridiculous,  but  hateful ;  it  arises  not  so 
much  from  a  want  of  understanding  as  a  total  want 
of  heart ;  it  is'  the  perversion  of  sentiment,  rather 
than  the  deficiency  of  intellect ;  he  has  occasional 
gleams  of  sense,  but  never  a  touch  of  feeling. 
Imogen  describe?  herself  not  only  as  "  sprighted 
with  a  fool,"  but  as  "  frighted  and  anger'd  worse." 
No  other  fool  but  Cloten — a  compound  of  the  boo- 
by and  the  villain — could  excite  in  such  a  mind  as 
Imogen's  the  same  mixture  of  terror,  contempt, 
and  abhorrence.  The  stupid,  obstinate  malignity 
of  Cloten,  and  the  wicked  machinations  of  the 
queen — 

A  father  cruel,  and  a  step-dame  false, 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady — 

justify  whatever  might  need  excuse  in  the  conduct 
of  Imogen — as  her  concealed  marriage  and  her 
flight  from  her  father's  court — and  serve  to  call  out 
several  of  the  most  beautiful  and  striking  parts 
of  her  character :  particularly  that  decision  and 
vivacity  of  temper,  which  in  her  harmonize  so 
beautifully  with  exceeding  delicacy,  sweetness,  and 
lubmission. 

In  the  scene  with  her  detested  suitor,  there  is  at 
first  a  careless  majesty  of  disdain,  which  is  ailWiTa- 
ble. 

I  am  much  sorry  sir, 
You  put  me  to  forget  a  lady's  manners. 
By  being  so  verbal;  *  and  leara  now.  foi  all, 


176       CHARACTERS    OF    THE   AFFECTIONS 

That  I,  which  know  my  heart,  do  here  pronoonu*, 

By  the  very  truth  of  it,  I  care  not  for  you, 

And  am  so  near  the  lack  of  charity, 

(T'  accuse  myself,)  I  hate  you;  which  I  had  rather 

Yon  felt,  than  make  't  my  boast. 

But  when  he  dares  to  provoke  her,  by  revihnf 
the  absent  Posthumus,  her  indignation  beigbteni 
Qer  scorn,  and  ber  scorn  sets  a  keener  edge  on  hoi 
indignation. 

CLOTEN. 

For  the  contract  you  pretend  with  that  base  wretch, 
One  bred  of  alms,  and  fostered  with  cold  dishes, 
With  scraps  o'  the  court;  it  is  no  contract,  aone. 

IMOGEN. 

Profane  fellow ! 
Wert  thou  the  son  of  Jupiter,  and  no  more, 
But  what  thou  art,  besides,  thou  wert  too  basa 
To  be  his  groom ;  thou  wert  dignified  enough, 
Even  to  the  point  of  envy,  if  'twere  made 
Comparative  for  your  virtues,  to  be  styl'd 
The  under  hangman  of  his  kingdom;  and  hated 
For  being  preferr'd  so  well. 

He  never  can  meet  more  mischance  than  come 
To  be  but  nam'd  of  thee.     His  meanest  garment 
That  ever  hath  but  clipp'd  his  body,  is  dearer 
In  my  lespect,  than  all  the  hairs  above  thee, 
Were  thtsy  all  made  such  men. 

One  thing  more  must  be  particularly  remarked, 
because  it  serves  to  individualize  the  character 
ih)m  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  poem.  W* 
kre  constantly  sensible  that  Imogen,  besides  beinj 


IMOGEN  271 

ft  tendei  and  devoted  woman,  is  a  princess  and  a 
beauty,  at  the  same  time  that  she  is  ever  superior 
to  her  position  and  her  external  charms.  There  is, 
for  instance,  a  certain  airy  majesty  of  depoTtment 
— a  spirit  of  accustomed  command  breaking  out 
every  now  and  then — the  dignity,  without  the  as- 
sumption of  rank  and  royal  birth,  which  is  appar- 
ent in  the  scene  with  Cloten  and  elsewhere ;  and 
we  have  not  only  a  general  impression  that  Imogen, 
like  other  heroines,  is  beautiful,  but  the  peculiar 
style  and  character  of  her  beauty  is  placed  before 
us :  we  have  an  image  of  the  most  luxuriant  love- 
liness, combined  with  exceeding  delicacy,  and  even 
fragility  of  person  :  of  the  most  refined  elegance, 
and  the  most  exquisite  modesty,  set  forth  in  one  or 
two  passages  of  description ;  as  when  lachimo  ia 
contemplating  her  asleep : — 

Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  becom'st  thy  bed!  fresh  lily. 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets. 

'Tis  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus.    The  flame  o'  the  tnp«r 
Bows  toward  her;  and  would  underpeep  ner  lids 
To  see  the  enclos'd  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  those  windows,  white  and  azure,  lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct  I 

The  preservation  of  her  feminine  charactecr 
under  her  masculine  attire ;  her  delicacy,  her 
modesty,  and  her  timidity,  are  managed  with  the 
lame  perfect  consistency  and  unconscious  grace  as 
b  Viola.     And  we  must  not  forget  that  her  "  neat 


178         CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECT  rONB. 

eookery,"  which  is  so  prettily  eulogized  by  Gnidei 
rius: — 

He  cuts  out  root8  in  characters, 

And  sauc'd  our  broths,  as  Juno  had  been  sick. 

And  he  her  dieter, 

formed  part  of  the  education  of  a  princess  in  those 
remote  times. 

Few  reflections  of  a  general  nature  are  put  into 
the  mouth  of  Imogen  ;  and  what  she  says  is  more 
remarkable  for  sense,  truth,  and  tender  feeling 
than  for  wit,  or  wisdom,  or  power  of  imagination 
The  following  little  touch  of  poetry  reminds  us  of 
Juliet : — 

Ere  I  could 
Give  him  that  parting  kiss,  which  I  had  set 
Between  two  charming  words,  comes  in  my  father; 
And,  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north, 
Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. 

Her  exclamation  on  opening  her  husband's  letter 
reminds  us  of  the  profound  and  thoughtful  tendeid 
Hess  of  Helen  : — 

0  learned  indeed  were  that  astronomer 
That  knew  the  stars,  as  I  his  characters  I 
He'd  lay  the  future  open. 

The  following  are  more  in  the  manner  ol 
babel: — 

Most  miserable 
Is  the  desire  that's  glcrious :  bless'd  be  those, 
How  mean  soe'er,  that  have  their  honest  wObi 
That  seasons  comfort, 


IMOGEK.  871 

Against  self-slaughter 
There  Is  a  prohibition  so  divine 
That  cravens  my  weak  hand. 

Thiis  may  poor  fools 

Believe  false  teachers;  though  those  that  aiebetray'd 

Do  feel  the  reason  sharply,  yet  the  traitor 

Stands  in  worse  case  of  woe,  - 

Are  we  not  brothers  ? 

So  man  and  man  should  be; 
Bnt  olay  and  clay  differs  in  dignity, 
Whose  dust  is  both  alike. 

Will  poor  folks  lie 
ITiat  have  afflictions  on  them,  knowing  'tis 
A  punishment  or  trial  ?    Yes :  no  wonder. 
When  rich  ones  scarce  tell  true :  to  lapse  in  folness 
Is  sorer  than  to  lie  for  need;  and  falsehood 
Is  worse  in  kings  than  beggars. 

The  sentence  which  follows,  and  which  I  believe 
has  become  proverbial,  has  much  of  the  manner  of 
Portia,  both  in  the  thought  and  the  expression : — 

Hath  Britain  all  the  sun  that  shines  ?    Day,  night. 
Are  they  not  but  in  Britain  ?    I'  the  world's  volumo 
Our  Britain  seems  as  of  it,  but  not  in  it; 
In  a  great  pool,  a  swan's  nest;  pr'jrthee,  think 
There's  livers  out  of  Britain. 

«  «  «  «  « 

The  catastrophe  of  this  play  has  been  much 
•dmired  for  the  peculiar  skill  with  which  all  the 
various  threads  of  interest  are  gathered  together 
•t  last,  and  entwined  with  the  destiny  of  Imogen. 
i!  may  be  added,  that  one  of  its  chief  beauties  if 


280       CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFKCTIONB. 

the  manner  in  which  the  character  of  Imogen  ii 
not  only  preserved,  but  rises  upon  us  to  the  con- 
clusion with  added  grace :  her  instantaneous  for* 
giveness  of  her  husband  before  he  even  asks  it, 
when  she  flings  herself  at  once  into  his  arms — 

Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady  from  you? 

and  her  magnanimous  reply  to  her  father,  when  he 
tells  her,  that  by  the  discovery  of  her  two  brothers 
she  has  lost  a  kingdom — 

No— I  have  gain'd  two  worlds  by  it— 

clothing  a  noble  sentiment  in  a  noble  image,  ^ve 
the  finishing  touches  oi  excellence  to  this  most 
enchanting  portrait. 

On  the  whole,  Imogen  is  a  lovely  compound  of 
goodness,  truth,  and  affection,  with  just  so  much  of 
passion  and  intellect  and  poetry,  as  serve  to  lend 
to  the  picture  that  power  and  glowing  richness  of 
effect  which  it  would  otherwise  have  wanted ;  and 
of  her  it  might  be  said,  if  we  could  condescend  to 
quote  from  any  other  poet  with  Shakespeare  open 
before  us,  that  "her  person  was  a  puradise,  and  her 
■oul  the  cherub  to  guard  it."  • 


CORDELIA. 

There  is  in  the  beauty  of  Cordelia's  chaiacter 
%a  effect  too  sacred  for  words,  and  almost  too  deef 

•  Drydea. 


COBDELIA.  281 

for  tears ;  w'ltliln  her  heart  is  a  fathomless  well  of 
{furest  affection,  but  its  waters  sleep  in  silence  and 
obscurity, — never  failing  in  their  depth  and  never 
overflowing  in  their  fulness.  Every  thing  in  her 
seems  to  lie  beyond  our  view,  and  affects  us  in  a 
manner  which  we  feel  rather  than  perceive.  The 
character  appears  to  have  no  surface,  no  salient 
points  upon  which  the  fancy  can  readily  seize: 
there  is  little  external  development  of  intellect, 
less  of  passion,  and  still  less  of  imagination.  It  is 
completely  made  out  in  the  course  of  a  few  scenes, 
and  we  are  surprised  to  find  that  in  those  few 
scenes  there  is  matter  for  a  life  of  reflection,  and 
materials  enough  for  twenty  heroines.  If  Lear  be 
the  grandest  of  Shakspeare's  tragedies,  Cordelia 
in  herself,  as  a  human  being,  governed  by  the 
purest  and  holiest  impulses  and  motives,  the  most 
refined  from  all  dross  of  selfishness  and  passion, 
approaches  near  to  perfection  ;  and  in  her  adapta- 
tion, as  a  dramatic  personage,  to  a  determinate 
plan  of  action,  may  be  pronounced  altogether  per- 
fect. The  character,  to  speak  of  it  critically  as  a 
poetical  conception,  is  not,  however,  to  be  compre- 
hended at  once,  or  easily ;  and  in  the  same  manner 
Cordelia,  as  a  woman,  is  one  whom  we  must  have 
loved  before  we  could  have  known  her,  and  known 
ber  long  before  we  could  have  known  her  truly. 

Most  people,  I  believe,  have  heard  the  story 
of  tie  young  German  artist  Miiller,  who,  whila 
employed  in  copying  and  engraving  Kaffaelle'i 
Madonna  del  Sipto,  was  so  penetrated  by  its  cele»- 


K'J       CHARACTERS   OF   THS  AFFECTIOKB. 

tial  beauty,  so  distrusted  his  own  power  to  d« 
justice  to  it,  that  between  admiration  and  despair 
he  fell  into  a  sadness ;  thence  through  the  usual 
gradations,  into  a  melancholy,  thence  into  madness ; 
and  died  just  as  he  had  pat  the  finishing  stroke  to 
his  own  matchless  work,  which  had  occupied  him 
for  eight  years.  With  some  slight  tinge  of  this 
concentrated  kind  of  enthusiasm  I  have  learned  to 
contemplate  the  character  of  Cordelia ;  I  have 
looked  into  it  till  the  revelation  of  its  hidden 
beauty,  and  an  intense  feeling  of  the  wonderful 
genius  which  created  it,  have  filled  me  at  once 
with  delight  and  despair.  Like  poor  Miiller,  but 
•with  more  reason,  I  do  despair  of  ever  conveying, 
through  a  difierent  and  inferior  medium,  the  im- 
pression made  on  my  own  mind  to  the  mind  of 
another. 

Schlegel,  the  most  eloquent  of  critics,  concludes 
his  remarks  on  King  Lear  with  these  words :  "  Of 
the  heavenly  beauty  of  soul  of  Cordelia,  I  will  not 
venture  to  speak."  Now  if  I  attempt  what  Schlegel 
and  others  have  left  undone,  it  is  because  I  feel 
that  this  general  acknowledgment  of  her  excellence 
can  neither  satisfy  those  who  have  studied  the 
character,  nor  convey  a  just  conception  of  it  to 
the  mere  reader.  Amid  the  awful,  the  overpower- 
ing  interest  of  the  story,  amid  the  terrible  convul« 
rions  of  passion  and  suffering,  and  pictures  of 
moral  and  physical  wretchedness  which  harrow  up 
the  soul,  the  tender  influence  of  Cordelia,  like 
tiiat  of  a  celestial  visitant,  is  felt  and  acknowledgeC 


CORDELIA.  289 

irithout  being  quite  understood.  Like  a  soft  star 
that  shines  for  a  moment  from  behind  a  stormy 
cloud  and  the  next  is  swallowed  up  in  tempest 
and  darkness,  the  impression  it  leaves  is  beautiful 
and  de«p, — but  vague.  Speak  of  Cordelia  to  a 
critic  or  to  ^  general  reader,  all  agree  in  the 
beauty  of  the  portrait,  for  all  must  feel  it;  but 
when  we  come  to  details,  I  have  heard  more 
various  and  opposite  opinions  relative  to  her  than 
any  other  of  Shakspeare's  characters — a  proof  of 
what  I  have  advanced  in  the  first  instance,  that 
from  the  simplicity  with  which  the  character  ia 
dramatically  treated,  and  the  small  space  it  occu- 
pies, few  are  aware  of  its  internal  power,  or  its 
wonderful  depth  of  purpose. 

It  appears  to  me  that  the  whole  character  resw 
upon  the  two  sublimest  principles  of  human  action, 
the  love  of  truth  and  the  sense  of  duty ;  but  these, 
when  they  stand  alone,  (as  in  the  Antigone,)  are 
apt  to  strike  us  as  severe  and  cold,  Shjikspeare 
has,  therefore,  wreathed  them  round  with  the 
dearest  attributes  of  our  feminine  nature,  the 
power  of  feeling  and  inspiring  affection.  The 
first  part  of  the  play  shows  us  how  Cordelia  is 
loved,  the  second  part  how  she  can  love.  To 
her  father  she  is  the  object  of  a  secret  preference, 
his  agony  at  her  supposed  unkindness  draws  from 
him  the  confession,  that  he  had  loved  her  most, 
and  "  thought  to  set  his  rest  on  her  kind  nursery." 
mi  then  she  had  been  "  his  best  object,  the  argu- 
vent  of  his  praise,  balm  of  his  age,  most  best,  most 


B84        CHARACrERS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 

dearest ! "  The  faithful  and  worthy  Kent  Ic  ready 
to  brave  death  and  exile  in  her  defence :  and 
afterwards  a  farther  impression  of  her  benign 
sweetness  is  conveyed  in  a  simple  and  beautiful 
manner,  when  we  are  told  that  "  since  the  lady 
Cordelia  went  to  France,  her  father's  poor  fool 
had  much  pined  away."  We  have  her  sensibility 
"  when  patience  and  sorrow  strove  which  should 
express  her  goodliest:"  and  all  her  filial  tenderness 
when  she  commits  her  poor  father  to  the  care  of 
the  physician,  when  she  hangs  over  him  as  he  ia 
Bleeping,  and  kisses  him  as  she  contemplates  the 
wreck  of  grief  and  majesty. 

0  my  dear  father !  restoration  hang 

Its  medicine  on  my  lips :  and  let  this  kiss 

Kepair  those  violent  harms  that  my  two  sisters 

Have  in  thy  reverence  made  1 

Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 

Had  challenged  pity  of  them  1     Was  this  a  fac« 

To  be  exposed  against  the  warring  winds, 

To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder 

In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 

Of  quick  cross  lightning?  to  watch,  (poor  perdu!) 

With  thin  helm?  mine  enemy's  dog, 

Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 

Against  my  fire. 

Her  mild  magnanimity  shines  out  in  her  fareweL 
to  her  sisters,  of  whose  real  character  she  is  pe» 
foctly  aware : — 

Ye  jewels  of  our  father!  with  washed  eyes 
Cordelia  leaves  you  I    I  know  ye  what  ye  ara, 
And  like  a  sister,  am  most  loath  to  call 


CORDELIA.  289 

lour  finilts  as  tLey  are  nam'd.    Use  well  otir  fother, 
To  your  professed  bosoms  I  commit  him. 
But  yet,  alas !  stood  I  within  his  grace, 
I  would  3ommend  him  to  a  better  place; 
So  farewell  to  you  both. 

GONERIL. 

Prescribe  not  us  our  duties  i 

The  modest  pride  with  which  she  replies  to  the 
tJuke  of  Burgundy  is  admirable ;  this  whole  pa* 
lage  ia  too  illustrative  of  the  peculiar  character  of 
Cordelia,  as  well  as  too  exquisite,  to  be  mutilated 

I  yet  beseech  your  majesty, 
(If,  for  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  heart, 
To  speak  and  purpose  not,  since  what  I  well  intend 
m  do't  before  I  speak,)  that  you  make  known, 
It  is  no  vicious  blot,  murder,  or  foulness. 
No  unchaste  action,  or  dishonored  step 
That  hath  deprived  me  of  your  grace  and  favor; 
But  even  for  want  of  that,  for  which  1  am  richer; 
A  still  soliciting  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
I  am  glad  1  have  not,  tho'  not  to  have  it 
Hath  lost  me  in  your  liking. 

LEAR. 

Better  thou 
fladst  not  been  bom,  than  not  to  have  pleased  me  b«ttei 

FRANCE. 

Tb  it  tut  this  ?  a  tardiness  of  nature. 
That  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke 
Which  it  intends  to  do? — My  lord  of  Burgondj, 
^^That  say  you  to  the  lady  ?  love  is  not  love 
ifhen  it  is  mingled  with  respects  that  stand 


186        CHARACTERS   OF   lUE   AFFECTIONS. 

Alocf  from  the  entire  point.    Will  you  hare  h«f 
She  is  herself  a  dowry. 

BURGUKDT. 

Royal  Lear, 
Give  hut  that  portion  which  yourself  propoMd, 
And  here  I  take  Cordelia  by  the  hand 
Duchess  of  Burgundy. 

LEAR. 

Nothing:  I  have  sworn;  I  am  firm. 

BURGUNDY. 

I  am  sorry,  then,  you  have  lost  a  father 
That  you  must  lose  a  husband. 

CORDEUA. 

Peace  be  with  Burgundy ! 
Since  that  respects  of  fortune  are  his  love, 
I  shall  not  be  his  wife. 

FRANCE. 

Fairest  Cordelia !  thou  art  more  rich,  being  poor, 
Most  choice,  forsaken,  and  most  lov'd,  despised  1 
Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon. 

She  takes  up  arms,  "  not  for  ambition,  but  a  deaf 
fether's  right"  In  her  speech  after  her  defeat,  wa 
have  a  calm  fortitude  and  elevation  of  soul,  arising 
from  the  consciousness  of  duty,  and  lifting  hel 
above  all  consideration  of  self.     She  observes,— 

)^e  are  not  the  first 
Who  with  best  meaning  have  incurred  the  wont  I 

She  thinks  and  fears  only  for  her  father. 


CORDRLIA.  Ml 

far  thee,  oppressed  king,  am  I  cast  dovn; 
Myself  would  else  out-frown  false  fortune's  frown. 

To  complete  the  picture,  her  very  voice  ia  chaiv 
fecteristic,  "  ever  soft,  gentle,  and  low ;  an  excel- 
lent thing  in  woman." 

But  it  will  be  said,  that  the  qualities  here  ex* 
etnplified — as  sensibility,  gentleness,  magnanimity- 
fortitude,  generous  affection — are  qualities  which 
belong,  in  their  perfection,  to  others  of  Shaks- 
peare's  characters — to  Imogen,  for  instance,  who 
unites  them  all ;  and  yet  Imogen  and  Cordelia  are 
wholly  unlike  each  other.  Even  though  we  should 
reverse  their  situations,  and  give  to  Imogen  the 
filial  devotion  of  Cordelia,  and  to  Cordelia  the  con- 
jugal virtues  of  Imogen,  still  they  would  remain 
perfectly  distinct  as  women.  What  is  it,  then, 
which  lends  to  Cordelia  that  peculiar  and  indi- 
vidual truth  of  character,  which  distinguishes  her 
from  every  other  human  being  ? 

It  is  a  natural  reserve,  a  tardiness  of  disposition, 
"  which  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke  which  it 
intends  to  do ;"  a  subdued  quietness  of  deportment 
and  expression,  a  veiled  shyness  thrown  over  all 
her  emotions,  her  language  and  her  manner ;  mak- 
ing the  outward  demonstration  invariably  fall  short 
of  what  we  know  to  be  the  feeling  within.  Not 
only  is  the  portrait  singularly  beautiful  and  inter- 
esting in  itself,  but  the  conduct  of  Cordelia,  and 
the  part  which  she  bears  in  the  beginning  of  the 
(tory,  is  rendered  consistent  and  natural  by  the 
ironderful    truth  and  delicacy   with    wldch    tbii 


S88       CHARACTERS   OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

peculiar    disposition  is  sustained  throughout  the 
play. 

In  early  youth,  and  more  particularly  if  we  are 
gifted  with  a  lively  imagination,  such  a  character  as 
that  of  Cordelia  is  calculated  above  every  other  tc 
impress  and  captivate  us.  Any  thing  like  mystery, 
any  thing  withheld  or  withdrawn  from  our  notice, 
seizes  on  our  fancy  by  awakening  our  curiosity. 
Then  we  are  won  more  by  what  we  half  perceive 
and  half  create,  than  by  what  is  openly  expressed 
and  freely  bestowed.  But  this  feeling  is  a  part  of 
our  young  life :  when  time  and  years  have  chilled 
us,  when  we  can  no  longer  afford  to  send  our  souls 
abroad,  nor  from  our  own  superfluity  of  life  and 
sensibility  spare  the  materials  out  of  which  we  build 
a  shrine  for  our  idol — then  do  we  seek,  we  ask,  we 
xthirst  for  that  warmth  of  frank,  confiding  tender 
ness,  which  revives  in  us  the  withered  affections 
and  feelings,  buried  but  not  dead.  Then  the  ex- 
cess of  love  is  welcomed,  not  repelled :  it  is  gra- 
cious  to  us  as  the  sun  and  dew  to  the  seared  and 
riven  trunk,  with  its  few  green  leaves.  Lear  is  old 
— "  fourscore  and  upward" — but  we  see  what  he 
has  been  in  former  days :  the  ardent  passions  of 
youth  have  turned  to  rashness  and  wilfulness :  he  is 
long  passed  that  age  when  we  are  more  blessed  m 
what  we  bestow  than  in  what  we  receive.  When  he 
Mtys  to  his  daughters,  "  I  gave  ye  all ! "  we  feel  that 
he  requires  all  in  return,  with  a  jealous,  restless, 
exacting  affection  which  defeats  its  own  wisheSi 
How  many  such  are  there  in  the  world  I  How  many 


CORDELIA.  28C 

to  sympathize  with  the  fiery,  fond  old  man,  when  he 
ahrinks  as  if  petrified  from  Cordelia's  quiet  calm 
reply  1 

LEAK. 

Now  our  joy, 
Although  the  last  UDt  least — 
What  can  you  say  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters'  ?  Speak ' 

CORDEUA. 

Nothing,  my  lord. 

LEAB. 

Nothing  1 

OOBDKLIA. 

Nothing. 

LEAB. 

Nothing  can  come  of  nothing:  spealc  again! 

CORDELIA. 

Unhappy  that  I  am  1  I  cannot  heave 

My  heart  into  my  mouth :  I  love  your  majesty 

According  to  my  bond;  nor  more,  nor  less. 

Now  this  is  perfectly  natural.  Cordelia  has  pen- 
etrated the  vile  characters  of  her  sisters.  Is  it 
not  obvious,  that,  in  proportion  as  her  own  mind  Is 
pure  and  guileless,  she  must  be  disgusted  with  their 
gross  hypocrisy  and  exaggeration,  their  empty 
protestations,  their  "  plaited  cunning ; "  and  would 
retire  from  all  competition  with  what  she  so  dis- 
dains and  abhors, — even  into  the  opposite  extreme  ? 
In  such  a  case,  as  she  says  herself — 

What  should  Cordelia  do? — ";ove  and  be  silent? 

For  the  very  expressions  of  Lear — 
ta 


(90      CHARACTERS   OF   THE   AFFECIIOMB. 

What  can  you  say  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  yoor  sisters'  ? 

are  enough  to  strike  dumb  forever  a  generous,  del^ 
icate,  but  shy  disposition,  such  as  Cordelia's,  by 
holding  out  a  bribe  for  professions. 

If  Cordelia  were  not  thus  portrayed,  this  d»» 
liberate  coolness  would  strike  us  as  verging  on 
harshness  or  obstinacy ;  but  it  is  beautifully  repre- 
sented as  a  certain  modification  of  character,  the 
necessary  result  of  feelings  habitually,  if  not  natur- 
ally, repressed:  and  through  the  whole  play  we 
trace  the  same  peculiar  and  individual  disposition — 
the  same  absence  of  all  display — the  same  sobriety 
of  speech  veiling  the  most  profound  affections — the 
same  quiet  steadiness  of  purpose — the  same  shrink- 
ing from  all  exhibition  of  emotion. 

"  Tous  les  sentiraens  naturels  ont  leur  pudeur," 
was  a  viva  voce  observation  of  Madame  de  Stael, 
when  disgusted  by  the  sentimental  affectation  of 
ner  imitators.  This  "  pudeur,"  carried  to  an  ex- 
cess, appears  to  me  the  peculiar  characteristic  of 
Cordelia.  Thus,  in  the  description  of  her  deport- 
ment  when  she  receives  the  letter  of  the  Earl  of 
Kent,  informing  her  of  the  cruelty  of  her  sisters 
ftnd  the  wretched  condition  of  Lear,  we  seem  to 
have  her  before  us : — 

KENT. 

Did  jonr  letters  pierce  the  queen  to  any  demonstratimi  Of 
grief? 

OENTLEMAN. 

Ay,  sir,  she  ^ook  them,  and  read  them  in  my  preaeiiM 


COB  DELIA.  391 

And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  stole  down 
Her  delicate  cheek.    It  seemed  she  was  a  qawn 
Over  her  passion;  who,  most  rebel-like 
Sought  tkt  be  king  over  her. 

Kurv. 
O  then  it  moved  her! 

GENTLEMAN. 

Not  to  a  rage. 
Faith,  once  or  twice  she  heaved  the  name  of  father 
Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  pressed  her  heart. 
Cried,  Sisters  !  sisters  !  Shame  of  ladies  I  Sisters  I 
What,  V  tlie  storm  f  i'  the  night  t 
Let  pity  not  be  believed.     Then  she  shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes; 

*  *  m  *  * 

Then  away  she  started, 
To  deal  with  grief  alone. 

Here  the  last  line — the  image  brought  before  uf 
of  Cordelia  starting  away  from  observation,  "to 
deal  with  grief  alone,"  is  as  exquisitely  beautiful 
as  it  is  characteristic. 

But  all  the  passages  hitherto  quoted  must  yield 
m  beauty  and  power  to  that  scene,  in  which  he* 
poor  father  recognizes  her,  and  in  the  intervals  of 
distraction  asks  forgiveness  of  his  wronged  child. 
The  subdued  pathos  and  simplicity  of  Cordelia's 
character,  her  quiet  but  intense  feeling,  the  misery 
Rnd  humiliation  of  the  bewildered  old  man,  are 
Wought  before  us  in  so  few  words,  and  at  the  ssime 
time  sustained  with  such  a  deep  intuitive  knowledge 
«f  the  innermost  w  )r  ungs  cf  the  human  heart,  that 


192       CHARACTERS   01<    THB   AFFECTIONS. 

■3  there  is  nothing  surpassing  this  scene  in  Shaki 
peare  himself,  so  there  is  nothing  that  can  be  coi» 
paired  to  it  in  any  other  writer. 

CORDEUA. 

How  does  my  royal  lord  ?    How  fares  yoar  mi^'estj? 

LEAR. 

You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  of  the  grave. 
TUoo  art  a  soul  in  bliss ;  bat  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tean 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

CORDEI I  A. 

Sir,  do  yon  know  me  ? 

LBAK. 

l oa  are  a  spirit,  I  know:  when  did  you  die? 

CORDEUA. 

Still,  still  far  wide  1 

PHTSICIAK. 

He's  scarce  awake:  let  him  alone  awhile. 

LEAR. 

Where  have  I  been?    Where  am  I  ?    Fair  daylight  I 
I  am  mightily  abused.     I  should  even  die  with  pity 
To  see  another  thus.    I  know  not  what  to  say. 
I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands :  Let's  see. 
I  feel  tliis  pin  prick.     Would  I  were  assured 
Of  my  condition. 

CORDELLA. 

0  look  upon  me,  sir, 
And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  mt  ^ 
Mo,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

LEAB. 

Pray,  do  not  mock  me: 
1  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man, 


COKDELIA.  291 

Fourscore  and  upwards ;  and  to  deal  plaiu'.y  with  yon, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  mao. 
Yet  I  am  doubtful:  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is;  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night.    Do  not  laugh  at  mej 
For  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

COBDELIA. 

And  so  I  am,  I  am. 

LBAB. 

Be  your  tears  wet?    Yes,  faith.    I  pray  you  weep  not 
If  you  have  poison  for  me  I  will  drink  it. 
1  know  you  do  not  love  me ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong: 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

COEDEUA. 

No  cause,  no  cause ! 

As  we  do  not  estimate  Cordelia's  affection  fof 
her  father  by  the  coldness  of  her  language,  so 
neither  should  we  measure  her  indignation  against 
her  sisters  by  the  mildness  of  her  expressions. 
What,  in  fact,  can  be  more  eloquently  significant, 
and  at  the  same  time  more  characteristic  of  Cordelia, 
than  the  single  line  when  she  and  her  father  ar« 
conveyed  to  their  prison  : — 

Shall  we  not  see  these  daughter*  and  these  $uter$  t 

The  irony  here  is  so  b-tter  and  intense,  and  at  the 
^me  time  so  quiei,  so  feminine,  so  dignified  in  tb« 
expression,  that  who  b'lf'   Cordelia  would    hava 


194       OnARACTESS    OF    THE    AFFECTION. 

Ottered  it  in  the  same  manner,  or  would  have  con 
densed  such  ample  meaning  into  so  few  and  simple 
words  ? 

We  lose  sight  of  Cordelia  during  the  whole  of 
the  second  and  third,  and  great  part  of  the  fourth 
act;  but  towards  the  conclusion  she  reappears. 
Just  as  our  sense  of  human  misery  and  wickedness 
being  carried  to  its  extreme  height,  becomes  nearly 
intolerable,  "  like  an  engine  wrenching  our  frame 
of  nature  from  its  fixed  place,"  then,  like  a  redeem- 
ing angel,  she  descends  to  mingle  in  the  scene, 
"  loosening  the  springs  of  pity  in  our  eyes,"  and 
relieving  the  impressions  of  pain  and  terror  by 
those  of  admiration  and  a  tender  pleasure.  For 
the  catastrophe,  it  is  indeed  terrible  !  wondrous  ter- 
rible !  When  Lear  enters  with  Cordelia  dead  in 
his  arms,  compassion  and  awe  so  seize  on  all  our 
faculties,  that  we  are  left  only  to  silence  and  to 
tears.  But  if  I  might  judge  from  my  own  sensa- 
tions, the  catastrophe  of  Lear  is  not  so  overwhelm- 
ing as  the  catastrophe  of  Othello.  We  do  not  turn 
away  with  the  same  feeling  of  absolute  unmitigated 
despair."  Cordelia  is  a  saint  ready  prepared  for 
heaven — our  earth  is  not  good  enough  for  her :  and 
Lear ! — O  who,  afler  sufferings  and  tortures  such  as 
his,  would  wish  to  see  his  life  prolonged  ?  Wbat 
replace  a  sceptre  in  that  shaking  hand  ? — a  crown 
apon  that  old  gray  head,  on  which  the  tempest  had 
poured  in  its  wrath  ? — on  which  the  deep  dread 
bo' ted  thunders  and  the  winged  lightnings  hao 
ipcnt  their  fury  ?     O  never,  never  1 


CORDELIA.  39  A 

Let  him  pajs!  he  hates  h-.m 

That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rongh  world 

Stretch  him  out  longer. 

In  the  story  of  King  Lear  and  his  three  daugb- 
ters,  as  it  is  related  in  the  "  delectable  aud 
mellifluous "  romance  of  Perceforest,  and  in  the 
Chronicle  of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  the  conclusion 
is  fortunate.  Cordelia  defeats  her  sisters,  and  re- 
places her  father  on  his  throne.  Spenser,  in  his 
version  of  the  story,  has  followed  these  authorities 
Shakspeare  has  preferred  the  catastrophe  of  the 
old  ballad,  founded  apparently  on  some  lost  tradi- 
tion. I  suppose  it  is  by  way  of  amending  his  errors, 
and  bringing  back  this  daring  innovator  to  sober 
history,  that  it  has  been  thought  fit  to  alter  the  play 
of  Lear  for  the  stage,  as  they  have  altered  Romeo 
and  Juliet :  they  have  converted  the  seraph-like 
Cordelia  into  a  puling  love  heroine,  and  sent  her 
off  victorious  at  the  end  of  the  play — exit  with 
drums  and  colors  flying — to  be  married  to  Edgar. 
Now  any  thing  more  absurd,  more  discordant  with 
fcll  our  previous  impressions,  and  with  the  characters 
as  unfolded  to  us,  can  hardly  be  imagined.  •'  J 
cannot  conceive,"  says  Schlegel,  "  what  ideas  of 
art  and  dramatic  connection  those  persons  have, 
who  suppose  we  can  at  pleasure  tack  a  double 
conclusion  to  a  tragedy — a  melancholy  one  for 
hard-hearted  spectators,  and  a  merry  one  for  those 
of  softer  mould."  The  fierce  manners  depicted  in 
bis  play,  the  extremes  of  virtue  and  vice  in  t^« 


196       0HAKACTER8   OF   THK  AFFECTIONS. 

persons,  belong  to  the  remote  period  of  the  stor)'.* 
There  is  no  attempt  at  character  in  the  old  n£u> 
ratives ;  Regan  and  Goneril  are  monsters  of  in- 
gratitude, and  Cordelia  merely  distinguished  by  hej 
6Hal  piety ;  whereas,  in  Shakspeare,  this  filial  piety 
is  an  affection  quite  distinct  from  the  qualitiea 
which  serve  to  individualize  the  human  being;  we 
have  a  perception  of  innate  character  apart  from 
all  accidental  circumstance:  we  see  that  if  Cor- 
delia had  never  known  her  father,  had  never  been 
rejected  from  his  love,  had  never  been  a  bom 
princess  or  a  crowned  queen,  she  would  not  have 
been  less  Cordelia ;  less  distinctly  herself;  that  is,  » 
woman  of  a  steady  mind,  of  calm  but  deep  affections^ 
of  inflexible  truth,  of  few  words,  and  of  reserved 
deportment. 

As  to  Regan  and  Goneril — "  tigers,  not  daugh- 
ters"— we  might  wish  to  regard  them  as  mere 
hateful  chimeras,  impossible  as  they  are  detestable ; 
but  fortunately  there  was  once  a  Tullia.  I  know 
not  where  to  look  for  the  prototype  of  Cordelia  r 
there  was  a  Julia  Alpinula,  the  young  priestess  of 
Aventicura,  f  who,  unable  to  save  her  father's  life 
by  the  sacrifice  of  her  own,  died  with  him — "  in/elix 
patris,  in/elix  proles," — but  this  is  all  we  know  of 
her.     There  was  the  Roman  daughter,  too.     I  re* 

*  King  Lear  may  b«  sttppoaed  to  bare  UtbcI  about  one  thotuanj 
•«an  before  the  Christian  era,  being  the  forth  or  fifth  in  desoent 
from  King  Brut,  the  great-grandson  of  ^neas,  and  the  &baloaf 
|»nnder  of  the  kingdom  of  Britain. 

t  She  ii  «ommemorated  by  Lord  Byron.  Vidt  Childe  HarolA 
OfentoiU. 


CORDELIA.  29  < 

Member  seeing  at  Genoa,  Guido's  "  Pieta  Romana," 
in  which  the  exprcsssion  of  the  female  bending  over 
the  aged  parent,  who  feeds  from  her  bosom,  is  per- 
fect,— but  it  is  not  a  Cordelia :  only  Raffaelle  could 
have  painted  Cordelia. 

But  the  character  which  at  once  suggests  itself 
in  comparison  with  Cordelia,  as  the  heroine  of  filial 
tenderness  and  piety,  is  certainly  the  Antigone  of 
Sophocles.  As  poetical  conceptions,  they  rest  on 
the  same  basis :  they  are  both  pure  abstractions  of 
truth,  piety,  and  natural  affection ;  and  in  both, 
love,  as  a  passion,  is  kept  entirely  out  of  sight :  for 
though  the  womanly  character  is  sustained,  by 
making  them  the  objects  of  devoted  attachment, 
yet  to  have  portrayed  them  as  influenced  by  pas- 
sion, would  have  destroyed  that  unity  of  purpose 
and  feeling  which  is  one  source  of  power ;  and, 
besides,  have  disturbed  that  serene  purity  and 
grandeur  of  soul,  which  equally  distinguishes  both 
neroines.  The  spirit,  however,  in  which  the  two 
characters  are  conceived,  is  as  different  as  possible ; 
and  we  must  not  fail  to  remark,  that  Antigone,  who 
plays  a  principal  part  in  two  fine  tragedies,  and  is 
distinctly  and  completely  made  out,  is  considered 
fts  a  masterpiece,  the  very  triumph  of  the  ancient 
classical  drama ;  whereas,  there  are  many  among 
Shakspeare's  characters  which  arc  equal  to  Cordelia 
as  dramatic  conceptions,  and  superior  to  her  in 
^nishing  of  outline,  as  well  as  in  the  richness  of  the 
poetical  coloring. 

When  CEdipus,  pursued  by  tne  vengeance  of  the 


l9St       CHABACTEBS   OF   THE   AFFECTIOm 

gods,  deprived  of  sight  by  his  own  mad  act,  and 
driven  from  Thebes  by  his  subjects  and  his  sons, 
wanders  forth,  abject  and  forlorn,  he  is  supported 
by  his  daughter  Antigone ;  who  leads  him  from  city 
to  city,  begs  for  him,  and  pleads  for  him  against  the 
harsh,  rude  men,  who,  struck  more  by  his  guilt  than 
his  misery,  would  drive  him  from  his  last  asyluoL 
In  the  opening  of  the  "  (Edipus  Coloneus,"  where 
the  wretched  old  man  appears  leaning  on  his 
child,  and  seats  himself  in  the  consecrated  Grove 
of  the  Furies,  the  picture  presented  to  us  is  won- 
derfully solemn  and  beautiful.  The  patient,  duteous 
tenderness  of  Antigone ;  the  scene  in  which  she 
pleads  for  her  brother  Polynices,  and  supplicates 
her  father  to  receive  his  offending  son ;  her  remon- 
strance to  Polynices,  when  she  entreats  him  not  to 
carry  the  threatened  war  into  his  native  country, 
Jire  finely  and  powerfully  delineated  ;  and  in  her 
lamentation  over  (Edipus,  when  he  perishes  in  the 
mysterious  grove,  there  is  a  pathetic  beauty,  appar* 
•nt  even  through  the  stiffness  of  the  translation. 

Alas !  I  only  wished  I  might  have  died 

With  my  poor  father;  wherefore  shoold  I  ask 

For  longer  life  ? 

O  I  was  fond  of  misery  with  hinc ; 

E'en  what  was  most  unlovely  grew  beloved 

When  he  was  with  me.     0  my  dearest  fathsr 

Beneath  the  earth  now  in  deep  darkness  hid, 

Worn  as  thon  wert  with  age,  to  me  thou  still 

Wert  dear,  and  shalt  be  ever. 

—Even  as  he  wished  he  died, 

la  »  strange  land — for  snob  was  his  desire-* 


CORDELIA.  S9t 

A  shady  turf  covered  his  lifeless  limhs, 
Noi  nnlamented  fell!  for  0  these  eyes, 
ily  father,  still  shall  weep  for  thee,  nor  time 
E'er  blot  thee  from  my  memory. 

The  filial  piety  of  Antigone  is  the  most  aSecting 
,*rt  of  the  tragedy  of  "  (Edipiis  Coloneus : "  her 
listerly  affection,  and  her  heroic  self-devotion  to  a 
ivligious  duty,  form  the  plot  of  the  tragedy  called 
by  her  name.  When  her  two  brothers,  Eteocles 
and  Polynices,  had  slain  each  other  before  the 
walls  of  Thebes,  Creon  issued  an  edict  forbidding 
the  rites  of  sepulture  to  Polynices,  (as  the  invadei 
of  his  country,)  and  awarding  instant  death  to 
those  who  should  dare  to  bury  him.  We  know 
the  importance  which  the  ancients  attached  to  the 
funeral  obsequies,  as  alone  securing  their  admission 
into  the  Elysian  fields.  Antigone,  upon  hearing 
the  law  of  Creon,  which  thus  carried  vengeance 
beyond  the  grave,  enters  in  the  first  scene,  an- 
nouncing her  fixed  resolution  to  brave  the  threat- 
ened punishment :  her  sister  Ismene  shrinks  from 
sharing  the  peril  of  such  an  undertaking,  and 
endeavors  to  dissuade  her  from  it,  on  which  Aa- 
dgone  replies : — 

Wert  thou  to  proffer  what  I  do  not  ask — 
Thy  poor  assistance — I  would  scorn  it  now; 
Act  as  thou  wilt,  I'll  bury  him  myself: 
Lot  me  perform  but  that,  and  death  is  welcome. 
I'll  do  the  pious  deed,  and  lay  me  down 
By  my  dear  brother;  loving  and  beloved, 
W9'll  rest  together. 

$Ii8  proceeds  to  execute  her  generooa  purpose 


JOO      CHARACTERS   OT   THE   AFFECTIOlfS. 

ihe  covers  with  earth  the  mangled  corse  of  Poly 
Dices,  pours  over  it  the  accustomed  libations,  it 
detec*^d  in  her  pious  ofEce,  and  after  nobly  defend- 
ing hsr  conduct,  is  led  to  death  by  command  of 
*he  tyrant :  her  sister  Ismene,  struck  with  sham* 
and  remorse,  now  comes  forward  to  accuse  her- 
self as  a  partaker  in  the  offence,  and  share  her 
Bister's  punishment;  but  Antigone  sternly  and 
ikjornfully  rejects  her;  and  after  pouring  forth  a 
beautiful  lamentation  on  the  misery  of  perishing 
"  without  the  nuptial  song — a  virgin  and  a  slave," 
she  dies  a  V antique — she  strangles  herself  to  avoid 
a  lingering  death. 

Hemon,  the  son  of  Creon,  unable  to  save  her 
life,  kills  himself  upon  her  grave  :  but  throughout 
the  whole  tragedy  we  are  left  in  doubt  whether 
Antigone  does  or  does  not  return  the  affection  of 
this  devoted  lover. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  in  the  Antigone  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  what  may  be  called  the  effect  of 
situation,  as  well  as  a  great  deal  of  poetry  and 
character:  she  says  the  most  beautiful  things  in 
the  world,  performs  the  most  heroic  actions,  and 
all  her  words  and  actions  are  so  placed  before  us 
as  to  command  our  admiration.  According  to  the 
classical  ideas  of  virtue  and  heroism,  the  character 
is  sublime,  and  in  the  delineation  there  is  a  severe 
simplicity  mingled  with  its  Grecian  grace,  a  unity, 
a  grandeur,  an  elegance,  which  appeal  to  our  tast* 
(nd  our  understanding,  while  they  fill  and  exalt 
iie  imagination  :  but  in   Cordelia  it  is  not   tiM 


CORDKLIA.  301 

»xternal  coloring  or  form,  it  is  not  what  she  says  or 
does,  but  what  she  is  in  herself,  what  she  feels, 
thinks,  and  suffers,  which  continually  awaken 
our  sympathy  and  interest.  The  heroism  of  Cor- 
delia is  more  passive  and  tender — it  melts  into  our 
heart ;  and  in  the  veiled  loveliness  and  unostenta- 
tious delicacy  of  her  character,  there  is  an  effect 
more  profound  and  artless,  if  it  be  less  striking  and 
less  elaborate  than  in  the  Grecian  heroine.  To 
Antigone  we  give  our  admiration,  to  Cordelia  our 
tears.  Antigone  stands  before  us  in  her  austere 
and  statue-like  beauty,  like  one  of  the  marbles  of 
the  Parthenon.  If  Cordelia  reminds  us  of  any 
thing  on  earth,  it  is  of  one  of  the  Madonnas  in  the 
old  Italian  pictures,  "  with  downcast  eyes  beneath 
th'  almighty  dove  ?  "  and  as  that  heavenly  form  ia 
connected  with  our  human  sympathies  only  by  the 
expression  of  maternal  tenderness  or  maternal 
sorrow,  even  so  Cordelia  would  be  almost  too 
angelic,  were  she  not  linked  to  our  earthly  feelings, 
bound  to  our  \ery  hearts,  by  her  filial  love,  he» 
Irrongs,  her  suffenngs,  and  her  teeirs 


♦ 


fflSTORICAL  CHARACTERa 


CLEOPATRA. 

1  CANNOT  agree  with  one  of  the  most  phiIo> 
lophical  of  Shakspeare's  critics,  who  has  asserted 
♦*  that  the  actual  truth  of  particular  events,  in  pro- 
portion  as  we  are  conscious  of  it,  is  a  drawback 
on  the  pleasure  as  well  as  the  dignity  of 
tragedy."  If  this  observation  applies  at  all,  it  ii« 
equally  just  with  regard  to  characters :  and  in 
either  case  can  we  admit  it  ?  The  reverence  and 
the  simpleness  of  heart  with  which  Shakspeeire 
has  treated  the  received  and  admitted  truths  of 
history — I  mean  according  to  the  imperfect  knowl- 
edge of  his  time — is  admirable  ;  his  inaccuraciei 
are  fsw :  his  general  accuracy,  allowing  for  the 
distinction  between  the  narrative  and  the  dramatic 
form,  is  acknowledged  to  be  wonderful.  He  did 
not  steal  the  precious  material  from  the  treasury  oi 
history,  to  debase  its  purity, — new-stamp  it  arbi^ 
trarily  with  effigies  and  legends  of  his  own  devising, 
and  then  attempt  to  pass  it  current,  like  Dryden, 
Racine,  and  the  rest  of  those  poetical  coiners :  he 
only  rubbed  off  the  rust,  purified  and  brightened 
ft,  so  that  history  herself  has  been  known  tt 
ieceiTe  it  back  as  sterling. 


CLBOPATBA.  3(A 

Truth,  wherever  manifested,  should  be  sacred  : 
JO  Shakspeare  deemed,  and  laid  no  profane  hand 
upon  her  altars.  But  tragedy — majestic  tragedy, 
'a  worthy  to  stand  before  the  sanctuary  of 
Truth,  and  to  be  the  priestess  of  her  oracles. 
"  Whatever  in  religion  is  holy  and  sublime,  in 
virtue  amiable  or  grave,  whatsoever  hath  passion 
or  admiration  in  all  the  changes  of  that  which  is 
called  fortune  from  without,  or  the  wily  subtleties 
and  refluxes  of  man's  thought  from  within  ;  "  * — 
whatever  is  pitiful  in  the  weakness,  sublime  in  the 
strength,  or  terrible  in  the  perversion  of  human 
intellect,  these  are  the  domain  of  Tragedy.  Sibyl 
and  Muse  at  once,  she  holds  aloft  the  book  of 
human  fate,  and  is  the  interpreter  of  its  mysteries. 
It  is  not,  then,  making  a  mock  of  the  serious 
Borrows  of  real  life,  nor  of  those  human  beings 
who  lived,  suffered  and  acted  upon  this  earth,  to 
array  them  in  her  rich  and  stately  robes,  and  pre- 
sent them  before  us  as  powers  evoked  from  dust 
and  darkness,  to  awaken  the  generous  sympatliies, 
the  terror  or  the  pity  of  mankind.  It  docs  not  add 
to  the  pain,  as  far  as  tragedy  is  a  source  of  emotion, 
that  the  wrongs  and  sufferings  represented,  the 
guilt  of  Lady  Macbeth,  the  despair  of  Constance, 
lie  arts  of  Cleopatra,  and  the  distresses  of  Kath- 
erine,  had  a  real  existence ;  but  It  adds  infinitely  to 
the  moral  effect,  as  a  subject  of  contemplation  and 
ft  lesson  of  conduct,  f 

*HUton. 

t  "  That  th«  tieacbeiy  of  King  John,  the  death  of  Aifihor,  and 


104  HISTORICAL   CHABACTERB. 

I  shall  be  able  to  illustrate  these  observatloiM 
more  fully  in  the  course  of  this  section,  in  which 
we  will  consider  those  characters  which  ai-e  drawn 
from,  history ;  and  first,  Cleopatra. 

Of  all  Shakspeare's  female  characters,  Miranda 
and  Cleopatra  appear  to  me  the  most  wonderfuL 
The  first,  unequalled  as  a  poetic  conception ;  the 
latter,  miraculous  as  a  work  of  art  If  we  could 
make  a  regular  classification  of  his  characters, 
these  would  form  the  two  extremes  of  simplicity 
and  complexity ;  and  all  his  other  characters  would 
be  found  to  fill  up  some  shade  or  gradation  b^ 
tween  these  two. 

Great  crimes,  springing  from  high  passions, 
grafled  on  high  qualities,  are  the  legitimate  source 
of  tragic  poetry.  But  to  make  the  extreme  of 
littleness  produce  an  effect  like  grandeur — to  make 
the  excess  of  frailty  produce  an  effect  like  power- 
to  heap  up  together  all  that  is  most  unsubstantial, 
frivolous,  vain,  contemptible,  and  variable,  till  the 
worthlessness  be  lost  in  the  magnitude,  and  a  sense 
of  the  sublime  spring  from  the  very  elements  of 
littleness, — to  do  this,  belonged  only  to  Shakspeare 
that  worker  of  miracles.  Cleopatra  is  a  brilliant 
antithesis,  a  compound  of  contradictions,  of  all  that 

Im  griaf  of  OonstanM,  had  a  real  tmth  in  history,  sharpeos  th« 
■ense  of  pain,  while  it  hangs  a  leaden  weight  on  the  heart  and 
the  imagination.  Something  whispers  us  that  we  hare  no  right 
to  oiake  a  mock  of  calamities  like  these,  or  to  turn  the  truth  of 
ttllngs  into  the  puppet  and  plaything  of  our  foncies."— See 
Cliaracters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays. — To  consider  (Am*  if  not  U 
lonaider  too  deeply,  but  not  deeply  enough. 


CLEOFATKA.  800 

we  nioat  hate,  with  what  we  most  admire.  The 
whole  character  is  the  triumph  of  the  external  over 
the  innate;  and  yet  like  one  of  her  countrjr's 
hieroglyphics,  though  she  present  at  first  view  a 
splendid  and  perplexing  anomaly,  there  is  deep 
meaning  and  wondrous  skill  in  the  apparent 
enigma,  when  we  come  to  analyze  and  decipher  it. 
But  how  are  we  to  arrive  at  the  solution  of  this 
glorious  riddle,  whose  dazzling  complexity  continu- 
ally mocks  and  eludes  us  ?  What  is  most  astonish- 
ing in  the  character  of  Cleopatra  is  its  antithetical 
construction — its  consistent  inconsistency,  if  I  may 
use  such  an  expression — which  renders  it  quite 
impossible  to  reduce  it  to  any  elementary  prin- 
ciples. It  will,  perhaps,  be  ibund  on  the  whole, 
that  vanity  and  the  love  of  power  predominate; 
but  I  dare  not  say  it  is  so,  for  these  qualities  and  a 
hundred  others  mingle  into  each  other,  and  shift 
and  change,  and  glance  away,  like  the  colors  in  a 
peacock's  train. 

In  some  others  of  Shakspeare's  female  char- 
icters,  also  remarkable  for  their  complexity, 
(^Portia  and  Juliet,  for  instance,)  we  are  struck 
with  the  delightful  sense  of  harmony  in  the  midst 
of  contrast,  so  that  the  idea  of  unity  and  simplicity 
of  effect  is  produced  in  the  midst  of  variety ;  but 
in  Cleopatra  it  is  the  absence  of  unity  and  sim- 
plicity which  strikes  us ;  the  impression  is  that  of 
perpetual  and  irreconcilable  contrast  The  con- 
tinual approximation  of  whatever  is  most  opposite 
m  character,  in  situation,  in  sentimentt  would  b* 
ao 


106  mSTORICAL   CHAKA.CTEES. 

fatiguing,  were  it  not  so  perfectly  natural:  tht 
woman  herself  would  be  distracting,  if  she  were 
not  so  enchanting. 

I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  Shakspeare'i 
Cleopatra  is  the  real  historical  Cleopatra — the 
"  Rare  Egyptian  " — individualized  and  placed  be- 
fore us.  Her  mental  accomplishments,  her  une- 
qualled grace,  her  woman's  wit  and  woman's  wiles, 
her  irresistible  allurements,  her  starts  of  irregular 
grandeur,  her  bursts  of  ungovernable  temper,  her 
vivacity  of  imagination,  her  petulant  caprice,  her 
fickleness  and  her  falsehood,  her  tenderness  and 
her  truth,  her  childish  susceptibility  to  flattery,  her 
magnificent  spirit,  her  royal  pride,  the  gorgeoua 
eastern  coloring  of  the  character ;  all  these  con- 
tradictory elements  has  Shakspeare  seized,  mingled 
them  in  their  extremes,  and  fused  them  into  one 
brilliant  impersonation  of  classical  elegance,  Orien- 
tal voluptuousness,  and  gipsy  sorcerj'. 

What  better  j)roof  can  we  have  of  the  individual 
truth  of  the  character  than  the  admission  that 
Shakspeare's  Cleopatra  produces  exactly  the  same 
effect  on  us  that  is  recorded  of  the  real  Cleopatra  ? 
She  dazzles  our  faculties,  perplexes  our  judgment, 
bewilders  and  bewitches  our  fancy  ;  from  the  be- 
S,inuing  to  the  end  of  the  drama,  we  are  conscioua 
if  a  kind  of  fascination  against  which  our  moral 
lense  rebels,  but  from  which  there  is  no  escai)^ 
The  epithets  applied  to  her  perpetually  by  Antonv 
and  others  confirm  this  impression  :  "  enchanting 
^uecn  I  " — "  witch  " — "  spell  "— ■"  great  fairy"— 


CI.EOrATKA.  807 

*  cockatrice  " — "  serpent  of  old  Nile  " — "  thou  grave 
charm  I "  *  are  only  a  few  of  them ;  and  who  doe» 
not  know  by  heart  the  famous  quotations  in  which 
this  Egyptian  Circe  is  described  with  all  her  infi* 
nite  seductions  ? 

Fie !  wrangling  queen  1 
Whom  every  thing  becomes — to  chide,  to  laugh. 
To  weep ;  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 
To  make  itself,  in  thee,  fair  and  admired. 

Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
,  Her  infinite  variety: — 

For  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her. 

And  the  pungent  irony  of  Enobarbus  has  well  ex 
posed  her  feminine  arts,  when  he  says,  on  the  occa- 
fdon  of  Antony's  intended  depjirturc, — 

Cleopatra,  catching  but  the  least  noise  of  this,  dies  ia« 
Btantly :  I  have  seen  her  die  twenty  times  upon  far  pootei 
moment. 

AMTONT. 

She  is  cunning  past  man's  thought. 

ENOBARBCS. 

Alack,  sir,  no!  her  passions  are  made  of  nothing  bat 
Bie  finest  part  of  pure  love.  We  cannot  call  her  windf 
tnd  waters,  sighs  and  tears ;  they  are  greater  storms  aad 
tempests  than  almanacs  can  report;  this  cannot  be  otu^ 

*  Qrave,  In  tlu  sense  of  mighty  or  potent. 


108  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

nlng  <n  her;  if  it  be,  she  makes  a  shower  of  rain  as  wdS 
as  Jove. 

The  -whole  secret  of  her  absolute  dominion  ove> 
the  facile  Antonj  may  be  found  in  one  Utde 
ipccch : — 

See  where  he  fa — who's  with  him — ^what  he  do«»— 
(I  did  not  send  yon.)    If  yon  find  him  sad. 
Say  I  am  dancing;  if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I  am  sadden  sick  1    Quick  I  and  return. 

CHARMIAN. 

Madam,  methinks  if  yon  did  love  him  dearlj, 
Ton  do  not  hold  the  method  to  enforce 
The  like  ttdta  him. 

CLEOPATRA. 

What  should  I  do,  I  do  not  ? 

CHARlOAir. 

In  each  thing  give  him  way;  cross  him  in  nothing. 

CLBOPATRA. 

Tbon  teachest  like  a  fool:  the  way  to  lose  him. 

OHABMIAir. 

Tempt  him  not  too  far. 

But  Cleopatra  is  a  mistress  of  her  art,  and  knows 
oetter :  and  what  a  picture  of  her  triumphant  pet* 
&laQce«  her  imperious  and  imperial  coquetry,  if 
pven  in  her  own  words  I 

Thattime—0  times! 
I  laogh'd  him  out  of  patience ;  and  that  nig^ 


CLKOPAIRA.  801 

1  laughed  him  into  patience:  and  next  morn. 
Ere  the  ninth  hour,  I  drunk  him  to  his  bed; 
Then  put  my  tires  and  mantles  on,  whilst 
I  wore  his  sword,  Philippan. 

When  Antony  enters  full  of  some  senous  pur* 
pose  which  he  is  abou*  to  impart,  the  woman's  per- 
terseness,  and  the  tyrannical  waywardness  witk 
which  she  taunts  him  and  plays  upon  his  temper 
»re  admirably  depicted. 

I  know,  by  that  same  eye,  there's  some  good  news. 
What  says  the  married  woman  ?  *    You  may  go; 
Would  she  had  never  given  you  leave  to  come  1 
Let  her  not  say,  'tis  I  that  keep  you  here ; 
I  have  no  power  upon  you;  hers  you  are. 

ANTONT. 

Ihe  gods  best  know 

CLEOPATRA. 

0,  never  was  there  queen 
So  mightily  betray' d!    Yet  at  the  first, 
I  saw  the  treasons  planted. 


Cleopatra! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Why  should  I  think  you  can  be  mine,  and  true, 
Though  you  in  swearing  shake  the  throned  gods, 
Who  have  been  false  to  Fulvia?    Riotous  madnM 
To  he  entangled  with  those  mouth-made  vows, 
Which  break  themselves  in  swearing! 

*  Fulvia,  the  first  wi&  ot  Antonr. 


110  HISTORICAL   CHARACTBRS. 

ASTOirr. 

Most  Bweet  qaeenl 

CLEOPATRA. 

Nay,  pray  you,  seek  no  color  for  yotir  going, 
But  bid  farewell,  and  go. 

She  recovers  her  dignity  for  a  moment  at  tit* 
iaews  of  Fulvia's  death,  as  if  roused  by  a  blow : — 

Though  age  &om  folly  could  not  give  me  freed<nn, 
It  does  from  childishness.    Can  Fulria  die? 

And  then  follows  the  artful  mockery  with  whick 
the  tempts  and  provokes  him,  in  order  to  discover 
whether  he  regrets  his  wife. 

0  most  false  love  I 
Where  be  the  sacred  vials  thou  shouldst  fill 
With  sorrowful  water?    Now  I  see,  I  see 
In  Fulvia's  death,  how  mine  receiv'd  shall  be. 

AUTONT. 

Quarrel  no  more;  but  be  prepared  to  know 
The  purposes  I  bear:  which  are,  or  cease, 
As  you  shall  give  th'  advice.    Now,  by  the  fin 
That  quickens  Nilus'  shrine,  I  go  from  bene* 
Thy  soldier,  servant,  making  peace  or  war, 
As  thou  affectest. 

OLBOTATRA. 

Cut  my  lace,  Charmian,  come   ■    ' 
Bat  let  it  be.    I  am  quickly  ill,  aud  welL 
Bo  Antony  loves. 


CLEOPATKA.  SI  1 

ANTONY. 

My  precious  queen,  forbear: 
And  give  true  evidenoo  to  his  love  which  standf 
An  honorable  trial. 

CLEOPATRA. 

So  Fulvia  told  me. 
I  pr'ythee  turn  aside,  and  weep  for  her: 
Then  bid  adieu  to  me,  and  say,  the  tears 
Belong  to  Egypt.    Good  now,  play  one  scene 
Of  excellent  dissembling;  and  let  it  look 
Like  perfect  honor. 

ANTONY. 

You'll  heat  my  blood — no  mora ' 

CliEOPATRA. 

Toa  can  do  better  yet;  but  this  U  meetly. 

ANTONY. 

NoTT,  by  my  sword — 

CLEOPATRA. 

And  target — still  he  mends: 
But  this  is  not  the  best.    Look,  pr'ythee,  Charmian, 
How  this  Herculean  Roman  does  become 
The  carriage  of  his  chafe ! 

This  is,  indeed,  most  "  excellent  dissembling ;  * 
but  -when  she  has  fooled  and  chafed  the  Herculean 
Roman  to  the  verge  of  danger,  then  comes  that 
«etum  of  tenderness  which  secures  the  power  she 
has  tried  to  the  utmost,  and  we  have  all  the  elegant] 
the  poetical  Cleopatra  in  her  beautiful  farewell. 

Forgive  me  1 
Since  my  becomuigs  kill  me  when  they  do  not 


Ill  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS 

Eye  well  to  you.    Yonr  honor  calls  you  henee, 

Therefo-e  be  deaf  to  my  unpitied  folly, 

And  all  the  gods  go  with  you  1     Upon  your  sword 

Sit  lanrell'd  victory;  and  smooth  succesB 

Be  strew'd  before  your  feet  I 

Finer  still  are  the  workings  of  her  variable  mind 
and  lively  imagination,  after  Antony's  departure ; 
her  fond  repining  at  his  absence,  her  violent  spirit, 
her  right  royal  wilfulness  and  impatience,  as  if  it 
were  a  wrong  to  her  majesty,  an  insult  to  her 
iceptre,  that  there  should  exist  in  her  despite  such 
things  as  space  and  time ;  and  high  treason  to  her 
lovereign  power,  to  dare  to  remember  what  she 
chooses  to  forget 

Give  me  to  drink  mandragora, 

That  1  might  sleep  out  this  great  gap  of  time 

My  Antony  is  away. 

0  GharmianI 
Where  think'st  thou  he  is  now  ?    Stands  he,  or  sita  h^ 
Or  does  he  walk?  or  is  he  on  his  horse? 
0  happy  horse,  to  bear  the  weight  of  Antony  1 
Do  bravely,  horse !  for  wot'st  thou  whom  thou  mov'st 
The  demi-Atlas  of  this  earth — the  arm 
And  burgonet  of  men.     He's  speaking  now. 
Or  murmtiring,  Where's  my  serpent  of  old  Nile? 
For  so  he  calls  me. 

Met'st  thou  my  poets  r 

ALEXA8. 

Ay,  madam,  twenty  several  messengurg: 
Why  do  you  send  so  thick  ? 

OI£OPATRA. 

Who's  bom  that  da^ 


CLEOPATKA.  SIS 

When  I  forget  to  send  to  Antony, 
Shall  die  a  beggar.    Ink  and  paper,  CharmiaiL 
Welcome,  my  good  Alexas.    Did  I,  Charmiaiif 
Ever  love  Caesar  so? 

CHARMIAN. 

0  that  brave  C»sar! 

CliEOPATKA. 

Be  chok'd  with  such  another  emphasis  1 
Say,  the  brave  Antony. 

CHARHIAN. 

The  valiant  Gsesarl 

CLEOPATRA. 

By  Isis,  I  will  give  thee  bloody  teeth, 
If  thou  with  Caesar  paragon  again 
My  man  of  men ! 

CHARMIAN. 

By  your  most  gracious  pardon, 
I  sing  but  after  you. 

•  CLEOPATRA. 

My  salad  days, 
When  I  was  green  in  judgment,  cold  in  blood, 
To  say  as  I  said  then.    But,  come  away — 
Get  me  some  ink  and  paper:  he  shall  have  every  day 
A  several  greeting,  or  I'll  unpeople  Egypt. 

We  learn  from  Plutarch,  that  it  was  a  favoritt 
wnusement  with  Antony  and  Cleopatra  to  ramble 
ihrough  the  streets  at  night,  and  bandy  ribald 
jests  with  the  populace  of  Alexandria.  From  th« 
ame  authority,  we  know  that  they  were  accustomed 
.o  live  on  the  most  familiar  terxas  with  their  attend 


114  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

ftnts  and  the  companicns  of  their  revels.  To  theM 
traits  we  must  add,  that  with  all  her  violence,  per- 
verseness,  egotism,  and  caprice,  Cleopatra  mingled 
a  capability  for  warm  affections  and  kindly  feeling; 
or  rather  what  we  should  call  in  these  days,  a  con- 
stitutional good-nature  ;  and  was  lavishly  generout 
to  her  favorites  and  dependents.  These  charac- 
teristics we  find  scattered  through  the  play  ;  they 
are  not  only  faithfully  rendered  by  Shakspeare, 
but  he  has  made  the  finest  use  of  them  in  his  de- 
lineation of  manners.  Hence  the  occasional  free- 
dom of  her  women  and  her  attendants,  in  the 
midst  of  their  fears  and  flatteries,  becomes  most 
natural  and  consistent :  hence,  too,  their  devoted 
attachment  and  fidelity,  proved  e^en  in  death. 
But  as  illustrative  of  Cleopatra's  disposition,  per- 
haps the  finest  and  most  characteristic  scene  *n  the 
whole  play,  is  that  in  which  the  messenger  Jurivea 
from  Rome  with  the  tidings  of  Antony's  marriage 
with  Octavia.  She  perceives  at  once  with  quick- 
ness that  all  is  not  well,  and  she  hastens  to  antici- 
pate the  worst,  that  she  may  have  the  pleasure  of 
being  disappointed.  Her  impatience  to  know  what 
she  fears  to  learn,  the  vivacity  with  which  she 
gradually  works  herself  up  into  a  state  of  excite> 
ment,  and  a*^  length  into  fury,  is  wrought  oat  wiA 
%  force  of  truUi  which  makes  us  recoil. 


CLEOPATRA. 

Antony'i  dead  I 
If  thoQ  say  so,  villain,  thou  kill'tt  thy  miatrwi 


CLEOPATRA.  Sll 

But  well  and  free, 

If  thou  so  yield  him,  there  is  gold,  and  hera 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss ;  a  hand  that  kings 
Have  lipp'd,  and  trembled  kissing. 

MESSENGER. 

First,  madam,  he  is  welL 

CLEOPATRA. 

Why,  there's  more  gold.    But,  sirrah,  mark  1  we  cm 
To  say,  the  dead  are  well :  bring  it  to  that, 
The  gold  I  give  thee  will  I  melt,  and  pour 
Down  thy  ill-uttering  throat. 

MESSENGER. 

Good  madam,  hear  me. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Well,  go  to,  I  will. 
But  there's  no  goodness  in  thy  face.    If  Antony 
Be  free  and  healthful,  why  so  tart  a  favor 
To  trumpet  such  good  tidings  ?    If  not  well, 
Thou  should'st  come  like  a  fury  crowu'd  with  snakat 

MESSENGER. 

Wil't  please  you  hear  me  ? 

CLEOPATRA 

I  have  a  mind  to  strike  thee  ere  thou  speak'st; 
Yet  if  thou  say  Antony  lives,  is  well. 
Or  fritnds  with  Csesar,  or  not  captive  to  him, 
I'll  set  thee  in  a  shower  of  gold,  and  hail 
Bich  pearls  upon  thee. 

HJCSSEMOKB. 

Uadam,  he's  welL 


Ill  HISTORICAL  CHARACTUW. 

OLBOPATRA. 

WeUsaid. 

MESSENORB. 

And  friends  with  Caesar. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Thou  art  an  honest 

HESSENOBB. 

Ciesar  and  he  are  greater  friends  than  evor. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Make  thee  a  fortune  from  me. 

MXSSEKOER. 

But  yet,  madam— 


CLEOPATRA. 

I  do  not  like  but  yet — it  does  allay 

The  good  precedence.    Fie  upon  but  yett 

But  yet  is  as  a  gaoler  to  bring  forth 

Some  monstrous  malefactor.    Pr'3rthee,  friend, 

Pour  out  thy  pack  of  matter  to  mine  ear, 

The  good  and  bad  together.  He's  friends  with  Gnstt 

In  state  of  health,  thou  say'st;  and  thon  say'st  fn» 

HE8SENOEB. 

Free,  madam!  No:  I  made  no  such  report, 
He's  bound  unto  Octavia. 

CLEOPATRA. 

For  what  good  turn? 

MESSENOKB. 

MaHam  he's  married  to  Octar'ak 


CLEOPATRA.  ,317 

CLEOPATRA. 

The  most  infectious  pestilence  upon  thee ! 

[Strikes  him  down, 

MESSENGER. 

Good  madam,  patience. 

CLEOPATRA. 

What  say  you  ?  [Strikes  him  again. 

Hence  horrible  villain !  or  I'll  spurn  thine  eyes 
Like  balls  before  me — I'll  unhair  thine  head — 
Thou  shalt  be  whipp'd  with  wire,  and  stewed  in  brine 
Smarting  in  ling'ring  fickle. 

MESSENGER. 

Gracious  madam ! 
I,  that  do  bring  the  news,  made  not  the  match. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Say  'tis  not  so,  a  province  I  will  give  thee, 

And  make  thy  fortunes  proud :  the  blow  thou  hadst 

Shall  make  thy  peace  for  moving  me  to  rage; 

And  I  will  boot  thee  with  what  gift  beside 

Thy  modesty  can  beg. 

MESSENGER. 

He's  married,  madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Bogne,  thou  hast  lived  too  long.  [Draws  a  dagger. 

MESSENGER. 

Nay  then  I'll  nm. 

What  mean  you,  madam?    I  have  made  no  fault    [Exit 

CHARMIAN. 

«ood  madam,  keep  yourself  within  yourself; 
Ihe  man  is  innocent. 


118  HISTORICAL   CHABACTEB8. 

CLEOPATBA. 

Some  innocents  'scape  not  the  thunderbolt. 
Melt  Egypt  into  Nile !  and  kindly  creatoret 
Tnm  all  to  serpents !  Call  the  slave  again; 
ThoQgh  I  am  mad,  I  will  not  bite  him — CaUl 

CHARMIAir. 

He  is  afraid  to  come. 

CIXOPATBA. 

I  will  not  hnrt  him. 
These  hands  do  lack  nobility,  jthat  they  strikt 
A  meaner  than  myself. 

*  «  «  •  • 

CLEOPATRA. 

In  praising  Antony  I  have  dispraised  Cesar. 

CHABHIAjr. 

Uany  times,  madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  am  paid  for't  now — 
Lead  me  from  hence. 

I  faint    0  Iras,  Charmian — 'tis  no  matter* 
Go  to  the  fellow,  good  Alexas;  bid  him 
Report  the  features  of  Octavia,  her  years, 
Her  inclination — let  him  not  leave  out 
The  color  of  her  hair.    Bring  me  word  quickly. 

[ExUAhm 
Let  him  forever  go — ^let  him  not — Charmian, 
Though  he  be  painted  one  way  like  a  Gorgon, 
T'other  way  he's  a  Mars.    Bid  you  Alexas 

[To  MartBim 
Bring  me  word  how  tall  she  is.  Pity  me,  Charmiao 
But  do  not  speak  to  me.    Lead  me  to  my  chambw 


CLEOPATBA.  31 J 

I  have  given  this  scene  entire  because  1  know 
nothing  comparable  to  it.  The  pride  and  arro- 
gance of  the  Egyptian  queen,  the  blandishment  of 
the  woman,  the  unexpected  but  natural  transitions 
of  temper  and  feeling,  the  contest  of  various  pas- 
sions, and  at  length — when  the  wild  hurricane  ha» 
spent  its  fury — the  melting  into  tears,  faintness, 
and  languishment,  are  portrayed  with  the  most 
astonishing  power,  and  truth,  and  skill  in  feminine 
nature.  More  wonderful  still  is  the  splendor  and 
force  of  coloring  which  is  shed  over  this  extraor- 
dinary scene.  The  mere  idea  of  an  angry  woman 
beating  her  menial,  presents  something  ridiculous 
or  disgusting  to  the  mind  ;  in  a  queen  or  a  tragedy 
heroine  it  is  still  more  indecorous  ;  *  yet  this  scene 
is  as  far  as  possible  from  the  vulgar  or  the  comic. 
Cleopatra  seems  privileged  to  "  touch  the  brink  of 
all  we  hate  "  with  impunity.  This  imperial  terma- 
gant, this  "  wrangling  queen,  whom  every  thing 
becomes,"  becomes  even  her  fury.  We  know  not 
Dy  what  strange  power  it  is,  that  in  the  midst  of  all 
these  unruly  passions  and  childish  caprices,  the 
poetry  of  the  character,  and  the  fanciful  and  spark- 
ling grace  of  the  delineation  are  sustained  and  still 
rule  in  the  imagination  ;  but  we  feel  that  it  is  so. 

I  need  hardly  observe,  that  we  have  historical 
»uthority  for  Vc3  excessive  violence  of  Cleopatra's 

•  The  well-known  Tlolence  and  coarseness  of  Queen  Klizabeth'l 
vuinD.ws,  in  which  she  was  imitaiied  by  the  women  ibout  her, 
piay  Ir  Shakspcare's  time  have  rendered  the  image  of  a  royal 
vtrafo  l*«a  offensire  and  less  extraordinary. 


tlO  HISTOmCAI.  CHARACTERS. 

temoer.  Witness  the  story  of  her  boxing  the  eart 
of  her  treasurer,  in  presence  of  Octavius,  as  related 
by  Plutarch.  Shakspeare  has  made  a  fine  use  of 
this  anecdote  also  towards  the  conclusion  of  the 
drama,  but  it  is  not  equal  in  power  to  thia  scene 
with  the  messenger. 

The  man  is  afterwards  brought  back,  almost  by 
force,  to  satisfy  Cleopatra's  jealous  anxiety,  by  a 
description  of  Octavia:  —  but  this  time,  made  wise 
by  experience,  he  takes  care  to  adapt  his  informa- 
tion to  the  humors  of  his  imperious  mistress,  and 
gives  her  a  satirical  picture  of  her  rival.  The 
scene  which  follows,  in  which  Cleopatra — artful, 
acute,  and  penetrating  as  she  is — ^becomes  the 
dupe  of  her  feminine  spite  and  jealousy,  nay, 
assists  in  duoing  herself;  and  after  having  cuffed 
the  messenger  for  telling  her  truths  which  are 
offensive,  rewards  him  for  the  falsehood  which  flat- 
ters her  weakness — is  not  only  an  admirable  exhi* 
bition  of  character,  but  a  fine  moral  lesson. 

She  concludes,  after  dismissing  the  mcssengez 
with  gold  and  thanks, 

I  repent  me  mnca 
That  I  80  harry'd  him.    Why,  methinks  by  him 
This  creature's  no  such  thing? 

CHARHIAX. 

0  nothing,  madam. 

CLEOPATKA. 

The  man  hath  seen  some  majesty,  and  shoald  know! 
Do  we  not  fancy  Cleopatra  drawing  herself  ap 


CLEOPATRA.  821 

With  all  the  vain  consciousness  of  rank  and  beauty 
as  she  pronounces  this  last  line  ?  and  is  not  this  the 
very  woman  who  celebrated  her  own  apotheosis, — 
who  arrayed  herself  in  the  robe  and  diadem  of  the 
goddess  Isis,  and  could  find  no  titles  magnificent 
enough  for  her  childi-en  but  those  of  the  Sun  and 
the  Moon  f 

The  despotism  and  insolence  of  her  temper  are 
touched  in  some  other  places  most  admirably. 
Thus,  when  she  is  told  that  the  Romans  libel  and 
abuse  her,  she  exclaims, — 

Sink  Rome,  and  their  tongues  rot 
That  speak  against  us ! 

And  when  one  of  her  attendants  observes,  that 
"  Herod  of  Jewry  dared  not  look  upon  her  but 
when  she  were  well  pleased,"  she  immediately  re- 
plies, '*  That  Herod's  head  I'll  have."  * 

When  Proculeius  surprises  her  in  her  monu- 
ment, and  snatches  her  poniard  from  her,  terror, 
and  fury,  pride,  passion,  and  disdain,  swell  in  her 
haughty  soul,  and  seem  to  shake  her  very  being. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Where  art  thou,  death? 
Come  hither,  come !  come,  come  and  take  a  queen 
Worth  many  babes  and  beggars  I 

PBOCULEIUS. 

0  temperance,  lady? 

CLEOPATRA. 

sir,  I  will  eat  no  meat;  I'll  not  drink,  sir: 
*  BtM  wasasgood  wher  w^rd.    See  the  lifr  of  Antony  la  Pt» 

ai 


MS  HISTOKICAL   CHARACTEBB. 

If  idle  talk  wlU  once  be  necessary. 

I'll  not  sleep  neither;  this  mortal  house  I'll  nUn, 

Do  Caesar  what  he  can  I     Know,  sir,  that  I 

Will  not  wait  pinion'd  at  your  master's  coait. 

Nor  once  be  chastis'd  with  the  sober  eye 

Of  dull  Octavia.    Shall  they  hoist  me  up, 

And  show  me  to  the  shouting  varletry 

Of  censuring  Rome  ?    Rather  a  ditch  in  Egypt 

Be  gentle  grave  to  me !    Rather  on  Nilus'  mad 

Lay  me  stark  naked,  and  let  the  water-flies 

Blow  me  into  abhorring!     Rather  make 

My  country's  high  pyramids  my  gibbet, 

And  hang  me  up  in  chains  1 

In  the  same  spirit  of  royal  bravado,  but  finef 
itill,  and  worked  up  with  a  truly  Oriental  exubepi 
ance  of  fancy  and  imagery,  is  her  famous  descrip> 
tion  of  Antony,  addressed  to  Dolabella : — 

Most  noble  empress  you  have  heard  of  me? 

CLBOPATRA. 

I  cannot  telL 

DOLABELLA. 

Assuredly,  you  know  me. 

CLEOPATRA. 

No  matter,  sir,  what  I  have  heard  or  known. 

You  laugh  when  boys,  or  women,  tell  their  dreuH' 

Is 't  not  your  trick  ? 

DOLABELLA. 

understand  not,  madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  dream'd  there  was  an  emperor  Antonji 
0  such  another  sleep,  that  I  might  ••• 
Bat  rach  another  man  I 


CLEOPATRA.  321 

DOLABELLA. 

If  It  might  please  you 

Cl,EOPATRA. 

His  face  was  as  the  heavens ;  and  therein  stnck 

A  snn  and  moon;  which  kept  their  course,  and  lightH 

The  little  0,  the  earth. 

DOLABELLA. 

Most  sovereign  creature 

CLEOPATRA. 

His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean:  his  reared  arm 

Crested  the  world ;  his  voice  was  propertied 

As  all  the  tuned  spheres,  and  that  to  friends ; 

But  when  he  meant  to  quail  or  shake  the  orb 

He  was  as  rattling  thunder.    For  his  bounty, 

There  was  no  winter  in't;  an  autumn  'twas, 

That  grew  the  more  by  reaping.    His  delights 

Were  dolphin  like ;  they  show'd  his  back  above 

The  element  they  liv'd  in.    In  his  livery  * 

Walk'd  crowns  and  coronets;  realms  and  islands  wart 

Ab  plates  t  dropp'd  from  his  pocket. 

DOLABELLA 

Cleopatra! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Think  you  there  was,  or  might  be,  such  a  man 
As  this  I  dream'd  of? 

DOLABELLA. 

Gentle  madam,  no. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Ton  He, — ^up  to  the  hearing  of  the  gods  I 

There  was  no  room  left  in  this  amazing  pictort 
*  •.  «.  MttniM.       t  i-  *•  ■Utbi  ooiua.  from  the  Spanish  pimlm 


lii  HI810KICAL   CHARACTEBS. 

for  the  display  of  that  passionate  maternal  tendei 
ness,  vhich  was  a  stron;;  and  redeeming  feature  in 
Cleopatra's  historical  cnaracter;  but  it  is  not  left 
untouchfe  ]  ',  for  when  she  is  imprecating  mischiefs 
on  herself,  she  wishes,  as  the  last  and  worst  of  pos- 
rible  evils,  that  "  thunder  may  smite  Caesarion ! " 

7*  representing  the  mutual  passion  of  Antony 
ai.d  Cleopatra  as  real  and  fervent,  Shakspeare  has 
adhered  to  the  truth  of  history  as  well  as  to  gen- 
eral nature.  On  Antony's  side  it  is  a  species  of 
infatuation,  a  single  and  engrossing  feeling :  it  is, 
in  short,  the  love  of  a  man  declined  in  years  for  a 
woman  very  much  younger  than  himself,  and  who 
has  subjected  him  to  every  species  of  female  en- 
chantment. In  Cleopatra  the  passion  is  of  a  mixed 
nature,  made  up  of  real  attachment,  combined  with 
the  lo  e  of  pleasure,  the  love  of  power,  and  the 
love  of  eelf.  Not  only  is  the  character  most  com- 
plicated, but  no  one  sentiment  could  have  existed 
pure  and  unvarying  in  such  a  mind  as  hers ;  her 
passion  in  itself  is  true,  fixed  to  one  centre ;  but 
like  the  pennon  streaming  from  the  mast,  it  flutters 
and  veers  with  every  breath  of  her  variable  tem- 
per :  yet  in  the  midst  of  all  her  caprices,  follies, 
and  even  vices,  womanly  feeling  is  still  predomi- 
nant in  Cleopatra:  and  the  change  which  takea 
place  in  her  (^-^portment  towards  Antony,  when 
Iheir  evil  fortun*  darkens  round  them,  is  as  beauti- 
ful and  interesting  in  itself  as  it  is  striking  anj 
natural.  Instead  of  the  airy  caprice  and  provofc 
bg  petulance  she  displays  in  the  first  scenes,  w« 


CLEOPATRA.  828 

have  a  mixture  of  tenderness,  and  artifice,  and 
fear,  and  submissive  blandishment.  Her  behavior, 
for  instance,  after  the  battle  of  Actium,  when  she 
quails  before  the  noble  and  tender  rebuke  of  her 
lover,  is  partly  female  subtlety  and  partly  natural 
feeling. 

CLEOPATRA. 

0  my  lord,  my  lord, 
Forgive  my  fearful  sails  I    I  little  thought 
You  would  have  foilow'd. 

ANTONT. 

Egypt,  thou  know'st  too  well 
My  hoart  was  to  the  rudder  tied  by  the  string's, 
And  thou  should'st  tow  me  after.     O'er  my  spirit 
Thy  full  supremacy  thou  know'st;  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  of  the  goda 
Command  me. 

CLEOPATBA. 

0,  my  pardon? 

ANTONT. 

Now  I  must 
To  the  young  man  send  humble  treaties,  dodge 
And  palter  in  the  shifts  of  lowness ;  who 
With  half  the  bulk  o'  the  world  play'd  as  I  ple&t'd| 
Making  and  mairing  fortunes.    You  did  know 
How  much  you  were  my  conqueror ;  and  that 
My  sword,  made  weak  by  my  affection,  would 
Obey  it  on  all  cause. 

CLKOPATRA- 

0  pardon,  pardon  I 

ANTONY. 

Tall  not  a  tear,  I  say ;  one  of  them  rates 
All  that  is  won  and  lost.  Gird  me  a  Um 
tven  this  repays  ma. 


t20  HISTORICAL  CHARACTERb. 

It  18  perfectly  in  keeping  •with  the  individoaS 
character,  that  Cleopatra,  alike  destitute  of  morai 
Btreugth  and  physical  courage,  should  cower  terri- 
fied and  subdued  before  the  masculine  spirit  of  her 
lover,  when  once  she  has  fairly  roused  it.  Thus 
Tasso's  Annida,  half  siren,  half  sorceress,  in  the 
moment  of  strong  feeling,  forgets  her  incantations, 
and  has  recourse  to  persuasion,  to  prayers,  and  to 

tears. 

Lascia  gl'  incanti,  e  vnol  provar  so  vaga 
£  supplice  belta  sia  miglior  maga. 

Though  the  poet  afterwards  gives  us  to  under- 
stand that  even  in  this  relinquishment  of  art  there 
was  a  more  refined  artifice. 

Nella  doglia  amara 
Giii  tutte  non  oblia  1'  arti  e  le  &odi. 

And  something  like  this  inspires  the  conduct  ci 
Cleopatra  towards  Antony  in  his  fallen  fortunes. 
The  reader  should  refer  to  that  fine  scene,  where 
Antony  surprises  Thyreus  kissing  her  hand,  "  that 
kingly  seal  and  plighter  of  high  hearts,"  and  ragea 
like  a  thousand  hurricanes. 

The  character  of  Mark  Antony,  as  delineated  by 
Shakspeare,  reminds  me  of  the  Farnese  Hercules. 
There  is  an  ostentatious  display  of  power,  an  ex- 
aggerated grandeur,  a  colossal  effect  in  the  whole 
conception,  sustained  throughout  in  the  pomp  of 
ihe  language,  which  seems,  as  it  flows  along,  to  re- 
•ound  with  the  clang  of  arms  and  the  music  of  tb< 
revel.  The  coarseness  and  violence  of  the  historic 
^rtra'l  are  a  little  kept  down;  bat  every  word 


CLEOPATRA.  32T 

irhich  Antony  utters  is  characteristic  of  the  antv 
gant  but  magnanimous  Roman,  who  "with  half  the 
bulk  o'  the  world  played  as  he  pleased,"  and  waa 
himself  the  sport  of  a  host  of  mad  (and  bad)  pas- 
sions, and  the  slave  of  a  woman. 

History  is  followed  closely  in  all  the  details  of 
the  catastrophe,  and  there  is  something  wonderfully 
grand  in  the  hurried  march  of  events  towards  the 
conclusion.  As  disasters  hem  her  round,  Cleopatra 
gathers  up  her  faculties  to  meet  them,  not  with  the 
calm  fortitude  of  a  great  soul,  but  the  haughty, 
tameless  spirit  of  a  wilful  woman,  unused  to  reverse 
or  contradiction. 

Her  speech,  after  Antony  has  expired  in  her 
arms,  I  have  always  regarded  as  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  in  Shakspeare.  Cleopatra  is  not  a  wo- 
man to  grieve  silently.  The  contrast  between  the 
violence  of  her  passions  and  the  weakness  of  her 
Bex,  between  her  regal  grandeur  and  her  excess  of 
miser}',  her  impetuous,  unavailing  struggles  with 
the  fearful  destiny  which  has  compassed  her,  and 
the  mixture  of  wild  impatience  and  pathos  in  her 
agony,  are  really  magnificent  She  faints  on  the 
body  of  Antony,  and  is  recalled  to  hfe  by  the 
cries  of  her  women  :-:- 

IRAS. 

Boyai  Egypt — empress  1 

CLEOPATRA. 

Nc  more,  but  e'en  a  woman !  *  and  commanded 

CWpatra  replies  to  iie  first  word  she  hears  oniecorerirc  Imi 
•lUM,  "  No  more  an  empress^  bat  a  mere  woman!  " 


■M  HISTORICAL  CHARACTERfl. 

By  BQch  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milk*, 

And  does  the  meanest  chares. — It  were  for  m« 

To  throw  ray  sceptre  at  the  injurious  gods : 

To  tel]  them  that  our  world  did  equal  theirs 

Till  they  had  stolen  our  jewel.    All's  but  naught. 

Patience  is  sottish,  and  impatience  does 

Recome  a  dog  that's  mad.    Then  is  it  sin 

To  rush  into  the  secret  house  of  death 

Ere  death  dare  come  to  us  ?    How  do  you,  women  ? 

What,  what?  good  cheer!  why  how  now,  Charmiuif 

My  noble  girls ! — ah,  women,  women  1  look 

Our  lamp  is  spent,  is  out. 

We'll  bury  him,  and  then  what's  bravo,  what's  noU«, 

Let's  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion, 

And  make  death  proud  to  take  us. 

But  although  Cleopatra  talks  of  dying  "  after  the 
high  Roman  fashion,"  she  fears  what  she  most  de« 
sires,  and  cannot  perform  with  simplicity  what 
costs  her  such  an  effort.  That  extreme  physical 
cowardice,  which  was  so  strong  a  trait  in  her  his- 
torical character,  which  led  to  the  defeat  of  Ac- 
tium,  which  made  her  delay  the  execution  of  a 
fatal  resolve,  till  &he  had  "  tried  conclusions  infinite 
of  easy  ways  to  die,"  Shakspeare  has  rendered 
with  the  finest  possible  effect,  and  in  a  manner 
which  heightens  instead  of  diminishing  our  respect 
and  interest  Timid  by  nature,  she  is  courageoiu 
by  the  mere  force  of  will,  and  she  lashes  herself  up 
with  high-sounding  words  into  a  kind  of  false  dar- 
ing. Her  lively  imagination  suggests  every  incen- 
tive which  can  spur  her  on  to  the  deed  she  haf 
resolred,  yet  trembles  to  contemplate.  She  pio 
tores  to  herself  all  the  degradations  which  mail 


CLEOPATRA.  S2S 

attend  her  captivity ,  and  let  it  be  observed,  that 
those  which  she  anticipates  are  precisely  such  as  a 
vain,  luxurious,  and  haughty  woman  would  espec- 
ially dread,  and  which  only  true  virtue  and  mag- 
nanimity could  despise.  Cleopatra  could  have 
endured  the  loss  of  freedom ;  but  to  be  led  in  tri* 
amph  through  the  streets  of  Rome  is  insufferable. 
She  could  stoop  to  Caesar  with  dissembling  courtesy, 
»nd  meet  duplicity  with  superior  art  *,  but  "  to  b« 
chastised  "  by  the  scornful  or  upbraiding  glance  of 
the  injured  Octavia — "  rather  a  ditch  in  Egypt  1 " 

If  knife,  drags,  serpents,  have 
Edge,  sting,  or  operation,  I  am  safe. 
Your  wife,  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes, 
And  still  conclusion,*  shall  acquire  no  honor 
Demurring  upon  me. 

Now  Iras,  what  think'st  thoo? 
rhon,  an  Egyptian  puppet,  shall  be  shown 
In  Rome  as  well  as  I.    Mechanic  slaves, 
With  greasy  aprons,  rules,  and  hammers,  shall 
Uplift  us  to  the  view.     In  their  thick  breaths, 
Bank  of  gross  diet,  shall  we  be  enclouded, 
And  forc'd  to  drink  their  vapor. 

IRAS. 

The  gods  forbid  I 

CLEOPATBA. 

Nay,  'tis  most  certam,  Iras.     Saucy  lictors 
Will  catch  at  us  like  strumpets ;  and  scald  rhymen 
Ballad  us  out  o'  tune.    The  quick  comedians 
Extsmporally  will  stage  us  and  present 

*  t.  «.  Mdate  determination. — JoHXMK 


IM  inSTORTCAL  CHARACTERS. 

Our  Alexandrian  revels.    Antony 

Shall  be  brought  drunken  forth ;  and  I  shall  iM 

Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  my  greatness. 

She  then  calls  for  her  diadem,  her  robes  of  state, 
%nd  attires  herself  as  if  "  again  for  Cydnos,  to 
meet  Mark  Antony."  Coquette  to  the  last,  she 
must  make  Death  proud  to  take  her,  ani  die, 
"phoenix  like,"  as  she  had  lived,  with  all  the  pomp 
of  preparation — luxurious  in  her  despair. 

The  death  of  Lucretia,  of  Portia,  of  Arria,  and 
others  who  died  "  after  the  high  Roman  fashion," 
is  sublime  according  to  the  Pagan  ideas  of  virtue, 
and  yet  none  of  them  so  powerfully  affect  the  im- 
agination as  the  catastrophe  of  Cleopatra.  The 
idea  of  this  frail,  timid,  wayward  woman,  dying 
with  heroism  from  the  mere  force  of  passion  and 
will,  takes  us  by  surprise.  The  Attic  elegance  of 
her  mind,  her  poetical  imagination,  the  pride  of 
beauty  and  royalty  predominating  to  the  last,  and 
the  sumptuous  and  picturesque  accompaniment! 
with  which  she  surrounds  herself  in  death,  carry  to 
its  extreme  height  that  effect  of  contrast  which 
prevails  through  her  life  and  character.  No  arts, 
no  invention  could  add  to  the  real  circumstancei 
of  Cleopatra's  closing  scene.  Shakspeare  haa 
shown  profound  judgment  and  feeling  in  adhering 
closely  to  the  classical  authorities ;  and  to  say  tha* 
the  language  and  sentiments  worthily  fill  up  the 
outline,  is  the  most  magnificent  praise  that  can  ba 
given.  The  magical  play  of  fancy  and  the  ovek 
powering  fascination  of  the  character  are  kept  up 


CLEOPATRA.  SSI 

lo  the  last .  and  when  Cleopatra,  on  applying  th« 
isp,  silences  the  lamentations  of  her  women : — 

Peace!  peace I 
Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast, 
That  sucks  the  nurse  to  sleep? — 

These  few  words — the  contrast  between  the  tender 
beauty  of  the  image  and  the  horror  of  the  situa- 
tion— produce  an  effect  more  intensely  mournful 
than  all  the  ranting  in  the  world.  The  generous 
devotion  of  her  women  adds  the  moral  chann 
which  alone  was  wanting:  and  when  Octavius 
hurries  in  too  late  to  save  his  victim,  and  exclaims, 
when  gazing  on  her — 

She  looks  like  sleep- 
As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace, 

the  image  of  her  beauty  and  her  irresistible  arts, 
triumphant  even  in  death,  is  at  once  brought 
before  us,  and  one  masterly  and  comprehensive 
stroke  consummates  this  most  wonderful,  most  daz- 
zling delineation. 

I  am  not  here  the  apologist  of  Cleopatra's  histor- 
ical character,  nor  of  such  women  as  resemble  her: 
I  am  considering  her  merely  as  a  dramatic  portnut 
of  astonishing  bei'ity,  spirit,  and  originality.  Sha 
hw  furnished  the  subject  of  two  Latin,  sixteen 
French,  six  English,  and  at  least  four  Italian  trag- 
edies ;  *  yet  Shakspeare  alone  has  availed  himself 

*  The  Cleopatra  of  Jodelle  was  the  first  regular  French  trny 
«J]r :  the  last  French  tragedy  on  the  same  subject  was  tbo  Cite 


IS2  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

of  all  the  interest  of  the  story,  without  falsifying 
the  character.  He  alone  has  dared  to  exhibit  the 
Egyptian  queen  with  all  her  greatness  and  all  her 
littleness — all  her  frailties  of  temper — all  her 
paltry  arts  and  dissolute  passions — yet  preserved 
the  dramatic  propriety  and  poetical  coloring  of  the 
character,  and  awakened  our  pity  for  fallen  gran- 
deur, without  once  beguiling  us  into  sympathy  with 
guilt  and  error.  Corneille  has  represented  Cleo* 
patra  as  a  model  of  chaste  propriety,  magnanimity, 
constancy,  and  every  female  virtue ;  and  the  effect 
is  almost  ludicrous.  In  our  own  language,  we  have 
two  very  fine  tragedies  on  the  story  of  Cleopatra : 
in  that  of  Dryden,  which  is  in  truth  a  noble  poem, 
and  which  he  himself  considered  his  masterpiece, 
Cleopatra  is  a  mere  conamonplace  "  all-for-love " 
heroine,  full  of  constancy  and  fine  sentimenta 
For  instance : — 

My  love's  so  true, 
That  I  can  neither  hide  it  where  it  is, 
Nor  show  it  where  it  is  not.    Nature  meant  me 
A  wife — a  silly,  harmless,  household  dove, 
Fond  without  art,  and  kind  without  deceit. 
But  fortune,  that  has  made  a  mistress  of  mo, 
Has  thrust  me  out  to  the  wild  world,  unfurnished 
Of  falsehood  to  be  happy. 

pktn  of  Mannontel.  For  the  representation  of  this  tragady 
Vaaeanson,  the  celebrated  French  mechanist,  inyented  an  aik 
tomaton  asp,  which  crawled  and  hissed  to  the  life, — to  the  gnal 
delight  of  the  Parisians.  But  it  appears  that  neither  Yauoan 
son's  asp,  nor  Clairon.  could  save  C16opatre  from  a  deserved  ftt*. 
Of  the  English  tragedies,  one  was  written  by  the  Countess  of 
Pembrolce,  the  sister  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney ;  and  is,  I  belieye,  tlu 
Irst  instance  in  our  language  of  original  dramatic  writing,  hf 
emaU. 


CLEOPATRA.  SSI 

Is  this  Antony's  Cleopatra — the  Circe  ot  the 
Nile — the  "Venus  of  the  Cydnus  ?  She  never 
littered  any  thiag  half  so  mawkish  in  her  life. 

In  Fletcher's  "  False  One,"  Cleopatra  is  repre- 
sented at  an  earlier  period  of  her  history :  and  to 
give  an  idea  of  the  aspect  under  which  the  charac- 
ter is  exhibited,  (and  it  does  not  vary  throughout 
the  play,)  I  shall  give  one  scene  ;  if  it  be  consid- 
ered out  of  place,  its  extreme  beauty  will  form  its 
best  apology. 

Ptolemy  and  his  council  having  exhibited  to 
Csesar  all  the  royal  treasures  in  Egypt,  he  is  so 
astonished  and  dazzled  at  the  view  of  the  accumu- 
lated wealth,  that  he  forgets  the  presence  of  Cleo- 
patra, and  treats  her  with  negligence.  The  follow- 
ing scene  between  her  and  her  sister  Arsinoe  occtin 
immediately  afterwards. 

ARSINOK. 

Tou're  so  impatient ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Have  I  not  canse? 
Women  of  common  beauties  and  low  births, 
When  they  are  slighted,  are  allowed  their  angen-» 
Why  should  not  I,  a  princess,  make  him  know 
The  baseness  of  his  usage? 

ARSINOE. 

Yes,  'tis  fit: 
pat  then  again  70a  know  what  man— - 

CLEOPATRA. 

He's  no  mwf 


m  HISTORICAL   CHABACTEKft. 

fhe  shadow  of  a  greatness  hangs  upon  him, 
And  not  the  virtue ;  he  is  no  conqueror, 
Has  suffered  under  the  hase  dross  of  nature; 
Poorly  deliver'd  up  his  power  to  wealth. 
The  god  of  bed-rid  men  taught  his  eyes  treason. 
Against  the  truth  of  love  he  has  rais'd  rebellion- 
Defied  his  holy  flames. 

EBOS. 

He  will  fan  back  agala 
And  satisfy  your  grace. 

OLEOFATKA. 

Had  I  been  old, 
Or  blasted  in  my  bud,  he  might  have  show'd 
Some  shadow  of  dislike :  but  to  prefer 
The  lustre  of  a  little  trash,  Arsinoe, 
And  the  poor  glow-worm  light  of  some  faint  jewels 
Before  the  light  of  love,  and  soul  of  beauty — 
0  how  it  vexes  me !    He  is  no  soldier: 
All  honorable  soldiers  are  Love's  servants. 
He  is  a  merchant,  a  mere  wandering  merchant, 
Servile  to  gain;  he  trades  for  poor  commodities, 
And  makes  his  conquests  thefts !    Some  fortunate  M^ 

tains 
That  quarter  with  him,  and  are  truly  valiant. 
Have  flung  thn  name  of  "  Happy  Gsssar  "  on  him; 
Himself  ne'er  won  it.    He's  so  base  and  coyetooa, 
He'U  sell  his  sword  for  gold. 

ARsraoK. 
This  is  too  bitter. 

CLEOPATRA. 

0, 1  coold  curse  myself,  that  was  so  foolish. 

Bo  fondly  childish,  to  believe  his  tongue — 

His  promising  t<mgue->«re  I  could  catch  his  tempec; 


CLEOPATRA.  390 

Td  trash  enoagh  to  have  cloyed  his  eyes  withal, 

(His  covetous  eyes,)  such  as  I  scorn  to  tread  on, 

Richer  than  e'er  he  saw  yet,  and  more  tempting; 

Had  I  known  he'd  stoop' d  at  that,  I'd  saved  mine  :ioso(^ 

I  had  been  happy  still !    But  let  him  take  it. 

And  let  him  brag  how  poorly  I'm  rewarded; 

Let  htm  go  conquer  still  weak  wretched  ladies ; 

I>ove  has  his  angry  quiver  too,  his  deadly, 

And  when  he  finds  scorn,  armed  at  the  strongest— 

i  am  a  fool  to  fret  thus  for  a  fool, — 

An  old  blind  fool  too  I    I  lose  my  health ;  I  will  not, 

I  will  not  cry ;  I  will  not  honor  him 

With  tears  diviner  than  the  gods  he  worships; 

[  will  not  take  the  pains  to  curse  a  poor  thing. 

EROS. 

Do  not;  you  shall  not  need. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Would  I  Y^re  prisoner 
fo  one  I  hate,  that  I  might  anger  him  I 
I  will  love  any  man  to  break  the  heart  of  himl 
Anj  that  has  the  heart  and  will  to  kill  him  I 

ARSWOB. 

fake  some  fair  truce. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  will  go  study  mischi«f, 
And  put  a  look  on,  arm'd  with  all  my  cunnings. 
Shall  meet  him  like  a  basilisk,  and  strike  him. 
Love!  put  destioying  flame  into  mine  eyes. 
Into  my  smiles  deceits,  that  I  may  torture  him— 
That  I  may  make  him  lev?  to  death,  and  langh  at  hifli 
JSiUer  Apollodorub. 

APOLLODORCS. 

Cswar  commends  his  service  to  your  grace 


IM  HISTORICAL  CHARACTSIMI. 

CLEOPATRA. 

His  service  ?    What's  iiis  service  ? 


KROS. 

Pray  yoa  be  p«tknt! 


The  noble  Gsesar  loves  still. 

CLEOPATRA. 

What's  his  wffl? 

APOLLODORCS. 

Be  craves  access  tmto  your  highness. 

CLEOPATRA. 

No;— 
Bay  no;  I  will  have  none  to  trouble  me. 

ARSISOB. 

Qood  sister  I — 

CLEOPATRA. 

None,  I  say.    I  will  be  private. 
Would  thou  hadst  flung  me  into  Nilus,  keeper, 
When  first  thou  gav'st  consent  to  bring  my  body 
To  this  unthankful  Gsesar  1 

AfOLLODORUS. 

'Twas  your  will,  madam. 
Nay  more,  your  charge  upon  me,  as  I  honor'd  you. 
Yon  know  what  danger  I  endur'd. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Take  this,  (giving  ajmttlt 
And  carry  it  to  that  lordly  Csesar  sent  thee; 
Therms  a  new  love,  a  handsome  one,  a  rich  one, — 
One  that  w'Jl  hug  his  mind:  bid  him  make  love  to  iti 

TeU  the  ambitious  broker  this  will  suffer 

Enter  CiGSAB. 


CLEOPATRA.  881 

APOLIiODORUS. 

He  enter*. 

CLEOPATRA. 

How! 

CJEBAR. 

I  do  not  use  to  wait,  lady 
Whore  I  am,  all  the  doors  are  free  and  open. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  guess  so  by  your  rudeness. 

C.S8AR. 

You're  not  angry? 
Things  of  your  tender  mould  should  be  most  gentle. 
Why  should  you  frown?    Good  gods,  what  a  set  anger 
Have  you  foi-c'd  into  your  face!     Come,  I  must  temp«I 

you. 
What  a  coy  smUe  was  there,  and  a  disdainful ! 
How  like  an  ominous  flash  it  broke  out  from  you  I 
Defend  me,  love !    Sweet,  who  has  anger' d  you? 

CLEOPATRA 

Show  him  a  glass !    That  false  face  has  hetray'd  me— 
That  base  heart  wrong'd  me ! 

C.S8AR. 

Be  more  sweetly  angry. 
I  wrong'd  you,  fair? 

CLEOPATRA. 

Away  with  your  foul  flatteries; 
They  are  too  gross  I     But  that  I  dare  be  angrf , 
And  with  as  great  a  god  as  Caesar  is. 
To  show  how  poorly  I  respect  his  •neaarj 
I  would  not  speak  to  you. 

n 


188  IIISTOKICAL   CHARAOTBRS 

Pray  70a,  undo  this  riddl«, 
And  teU  me  how  I've  vexed  70a. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Let  me  think  first, 
Whether  I  may  put  on  patience 
That  will  with  honor  suffer  me.    Know  I  hate  jam  f 
Let  tliat  l>egin  the  story.    Now  I'll  tell  yon. 

cxaxR. 

But  do  it  mQdly:  in  a  noble  lady, 

Softness  of  spirit,  and  a  sober  nature, 

That  moves  like  summer  winds,  cool,  vid  blows 

ness. 
Shows  blessed,  like  herself. 

CLEOPATRA. 

And  that  great  blessedness. 
Yon  first  reap'd  of  me;  till  you  taught  my  natar% 
Like  a  rude  storm,  to  talk  aloud  and  thunder. 
Sleep  was  not  gentler  than  my  soul,  and  stiller. 
You  had  the  spring  of  my  affections. 
And  my  fair  fruits  I  gave  you  leave  to  taste  of; 
Y  ou  must  expect  the  winter  of  mine  anger. 
You  flung  me  off— before  the  court  disgraced  me— 
When  in  the  pride  I  appear'd  of  all  my  beauty — 
Appear'd  your  mistress;  took  unto  your  eyes 
The  common  strumpet,  love  of  hated  lucre, — 
Courted  with  covetous  heart  the  slave  of  nature,-* 
Gave  all  your  thoughts  to  gold,  that  men  of  glory, 
And  minds  adorned  with  noble  love,  would  kick  att 
Soldiers  of  royal  mark  scorn  such  base  purchase; 
Beauty  and  honor  are  the  marks  they  shoot  at. 
I  spake  to  you  then,  I  courted  you,  and  woo'd  yoVf 
Ualled  you  dear  Csesar,  hung  about  you  tenderly, 
Was  proud  to  appear  your  friend — 


CLEOPATRi^.  899 

C^SAR. 

You  have  mistaken  nu. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Bat  neither  eye,  nor  favor,  not  a  smile 

Was  I  biesseil  back  withal,  but  shook  off  mdelji 

And  as  von  had  been  sold  to  sordid  infamy, 

Y^ou  fell  before  the  images  of  treasure, 

And  in  your  soul  you  worship'd.     I  stood  slight«d| 

Forgotten,  and  contemned ;  my  soft  embraces, 

And  those  sweet  kisses  which  yon  called  Elysium 

As  letters  writ  in  sand,  no  more  remember'd; 

The  name  and  glory  of  your  Cleopatra 

Langh'd  at,  and  made  a  story  to  your  capt^inB  I 

Shalll  endure? 

casAR. 
Yon  are  deceived  in  all  this ; 
Upon  my  life  you  are;  'tis  your  much  tendem«sik 

CLEOPATRA. 

No,  no;  I  love  not  that  way;  you  are  cozen'd; 
I  love  with  as  much  ambition  as  a  conqueror, 
And  where  I  love  will  triumph  I 

CiESAR. 

So  you  shall: 
My  heart  shall  be  the  chariot  that  shall  bear  you: 
All  I  have  won  shall  wait  upon  you.    By  th<s  gq^ 
The  bravery  of  this  woman's  mind  has  fir»l  m«l 
l^ear  mistress,  shall  I  but  this  once 

CLEOPATRA. 

How!  Caesar! 
HsTe  I  let  slip  a  second  vanity 
That  gi^es  thee  hope  ? 


140  UISTOKICAL   CHARACICBS. 

C.A8AB. 

Yoa  shall  be  absolnta, 
^d  reign  alone  as  qneen;  70a  shall  be  anj  thinf . 

OLBOPATRA. 

•  «  «  «  « 

■  Farewell,  nnthankfol  1 

OJCSAB. 

Stay  I 

CLEOPATBA. 

IwOlnot 

C^BSAB. 

I  oommuid. 

OUEOPATRA. 

Command,  and  go  without,  sir, 

I  do  command  thee  be  my  slave  forever, 

And  vex,  while  I  laugh  at  thee ! 

C.SSAB. 

Thus  low,  beauty [He  Inetb 

CLEOPATRA. 

It  is  too  late ;  when  I  have  found  thee  absolute, 

The  man  that  fame  reports  thee,  and  to  me, 

May  be  I  shall  think  better.    Farewell,  conqueror! 

(EriL) 

Now  this  is  magnificent  poetry,  but  this  is  ncl 
Cleopatra,  this  is  not "  the  gipsey  queen."  The  sen- 
timent here  is  too  profound,  the  majesty  too  real,  and 
too  lofty.  Cleopatra  could  be  great  by  fits  and  starts, 
but  never  sustained  her  dignity  upon  so  high  a  tone 
fcr  ten  minutes  together.  The  Cleopatra  of  Fletcher 
rensit  ds  us  of  the  antique  colossal  statue  of  ker  a 


OCTAVlA.  841 

toe  Vatican,  all  grandeur  ami  graco.  Cleopatra  in 
Dr}'den's  tragedy  is  like  Guide's  dying  Cleopatra 
in  the  Pitti  Palace,  tenderly  beautiful.  Sbaks- 
peare's  Cleopatra  is  like  one  of  those  graceful  and 
fantastic  pieces  of  antique  Arabesque,  in  which  all 
anomalous  shapes  and  impossible  and  wild  con* 
biuations  of  form  are  woven  together  in  regular 
confusion  and  most  harmonious  discord :  and  such, 
we  have  reason  to  believe,  was  the  living  woman 
herself,  when  she  existed  upon  this  earth. 


OCTAVIA. 

I  DO  not  understand  the  observation  of  a  late 
critic,  that  in  this  play  "  Octavia  is  only  a  dull  foil 
to  Cleopatra."  Cleopatra  requires  no  foil,  and 
Octavia  is  not  dull,  though  in  a  moment  of  jealous 
Bpleen,  her  accomplished  rival  gives  her  that  epi- 
thet.* It  is  possible  that  her  beautiful  character,  if 
brought  more  forward  and  colored  up  to  the  his- 
toric portrait,  would  still  be  eclipsed  by  the  dazzling 
iplendor  of  Cleopatra's ;  for  so  I  have  seen  a  flight 
of  fireworks  blot  out  for  a  while  the  silver  moon 
and  ever-burning  stars.  But  here  the  subject  of 
the  drama  being  the  love  of  Antony  and  Cleo 

«  "  The  Kber  eye  of  doV  Octavia."— Act  t.  soeM  & 


•42  HISTORICAI.  CHARACTERS. 

patra,  Octavia  is  very  properly  kept  in  the  back- 
ground,  and  far  from  any  competition  with  her 
rival:  the  interest  would  otherwise  have  beet 
unpleasantly  divided,  or  rather  Cleopatra  hiirself 
must  have  served  but  as  a  foil  to  the  tender,  vii> 
taous,  dignified,  and  generous  Octavia,  the  very 
beau  ideal  of  a  noble  Roman  lady : — 

Admired  Octavia,  whose  beauty  claims 
No  worse  a  husband  than  the  best  of  men; 
Whose  virtues  and  whose  general  graces  speak 
That  which  none  else  can  utter. 

Dryden  has  committed  a  great  mistake  in  bring- 
ing Octavia  and  her  children  on  the  scene,  and  in 
immediate  contact  with  Cleopatra.  To  have  thua 
violated  the  truth  of  history*  might  have  been 
excusable,  but  to  sacrifice  the  truth  of  nature  and 
dramatic  propriety,  to  produce  a  mere  stage  effect, 
was  unpardonable.  In  order  to  preserve  the  unity 
of  interest,  he  has  falsified  the  character  of  Octavia 
as  well  as  that  of  Cleopatra :  f  he  has  presented  us 

♦  Octavia  was  never  In  Egypt. 

t  "  The  Octavia  of  Dryden  is  a  mnoh  mora  important  pmon- 
■ge  than  in  the  Antony  and  Cleopatra  of  Shakspeara.  She  ia, 
however,  more  cold  and  anamiable,  for  in  the  very  short  scenM 
in  which  the  Octavia  of  Shakspeare  is  introduced,  she  is  placed 
in  rather  an  interesting  point  of  view.  But  Dryden  has  himself 
Informed  us  that  he  was  apprehensive  that  the  justice  of  a  wife's 
e.aim  would  draw  the  audience  to  her  side,  and  lessen  theii 
Interest  in  the  lover  and  the  mistress.  He  seems  accordingly  U. 
have  studiously  lowered  the  character  of  the  injured  Ootavik 
who,  In  her  conduct  to  her  husband,  shows  much  duty  an4 
little  love."  Sir  W.  Scott  (in  the  same  fine  piece  of  criticiflm 
«Mflxri  to  Dryden's  All  for  Lore)  gives  the  pieferenoe  (o  Shaka 
teare's  Cleooatra 


OCTAVIA.  S48 

with  a  regular  scolding-match  between  the  rivals, 
m  which  they  come  sweeping  up  to  each  other 
from  opposite  sides  of  the  stage,  with  their  respec- 
tive trains,  like  two  pea-hens  in  a  passion.  Shak- 
gpeare  would  no  more  have  brought  his  captivating, 
brilliant,  but  meretricious  Cleopatra  into  immediate 
comparison  with  the  noble  and  chaste  simplicity  of 
Octavia,  than  a  connoisseur  in  art  would  have 
placed  Canova's  Dansatrice,  beautiful  as  it  is, 
beside  the  Athenian  Melpomene,  or  the  Vestal  of 
the  Capitol. 

The  character  of  Octavia  is  merely  indicated  in 
a  few  touches,  but  every  stroke  tells.  We  see  her 
with  "  downcast  eyes  sedate  and  sweet,  and  looks 
demure," — with  her  modest  tenderness  and  digni* 
fied  submission — the  very  antipodes  of  her  rival 
Nor  should  we  forget  that  she  has  furnished  one  of 
the  most  graceful  similes  in  the  whole  compass  of 
poetry,  where  her  soft  equanimity  in  the  midst  of 
grief  is  compared  to 

The  swan's  down  feather 
That  stands  upon  the  swell  at  flood  of  tide, 
And  neither  way  inclines. 

The  fear  which  seems  to  haunt  the  mind  of 
Cleopatra,  lest  she  should  be  "chastised  by  the 
■ober  eye"  of  Octavia,  is  exceedingly  characteristic 
of  the  two  women  :  it  betrays  the  jealous  pride  of 
Ver,  who  was  conscious  that  she  had  forfeited  all 
real  claim  to  respect ;  and  it  places  Octavia  before  ui 
n  all  the  majesty  of  that  virtue  which  could  strike  a 


844  HISTORICAL     CHARACTBB8. 

kind  of  envying  and  remorseful  awe  even  into  tin 
boeom  of  Cleopatra.  What  would  she  have  thought 
and  felt,  had  some  soothsayer  foretold  to  her  the 
fate  of  her  own  children,  whom  she  so  tenderly 
loved  ?  Captives,  and  exposed  to  the  rage  of  the 
Roman  populace,  they  owed  their  existence  to  the 
generous,  admirable  Octavia,  in  whose  mind  there 
entered  no  particle  of  littleness.  She  received 
into  her  house  the  children  of  Antony  and  Cleo» 
patra,  educated  them  with  her  own,  treated  them 
with  truly  naternal  tenderness,  and  married  thedi 
nobly. 

Lastly,  to  complete  the  contrast,  the  death  of 
Octavia  should  be  put  in  comparison  with  that  of 
Cleopatra. 

After  spending  several  years  in  dignified  retire- 
ment, respected  as  the  sister  of  Augustus,  but  more 
for  her  own  virtues,  Octavia  last  her  eldest  son 
Marcellus,  who  was  expressively  called  the  "  Hopo 
of  Rome."  Her  fortitude  gave  way  under  thii 
blow,  and  she  fell  into  a  deep  melancholy,  which 
gradually  wasted  her  health.  While  she  was  thus 
declining  into  death,  occurred  that  beautiful  scene 
which  has  never  yet,  I  believe,  been  made  the 
subject  of  a  picture,  but  should  certainlv  be  added 
to  my  gallery,  (if  I  had  one,)  and  I  would  hang  it 
ppposite  to  the  dying  Cleopatra.  Virgil  was  com- 
manded by  Augustus  to  read  aloud  to  his  sister 
that  book  of  the  Eneid  in  which  he  had  commemo* 
rated  the  virtues  and  early  death  of  the  yoan| 
Ifarcellus.    When  he  came  to  the  line»— 


VOLUMXIA.  S4A 

1  flis  youth,  the  blissful  vision  of  a  day, 

Shall  just  be  shown  on  earth,  then  snatch'd  away,  && 

Ihe  mother  covered  her  face,  and  burst  into  tears. 
But  when  Virgil  mentioned  her  son  by  name, 
("  Tu  Marcellus  eris,")  which  he  had  artfully  de- 
ferred till  the  concluding  lines,  Octavia,  unable  to 
control  her  agitation,  fainted  away.  She  afterwards, 
with  a  magnificent  spirit,  ordered  the  poet  a  gra- 
tuity of  ten  thousand  sesterces  for  each  line  of  the 
pf^negyric*  It  is  probable  that  the  agitation  she 
BuiTered  on  this  occasion  hastened  the  effects  of  her 
disorder;  for  she  died  soon  after,  (of  grief,  says 
the  historian,)  having  survived  Antony  about 
twenty  years. 


•+»+• 


VOLUMNIA. 

Octavia,  however,  is  only  a  beautiful  sketch, 
while  in  Volumnia,  Shakspeare  has  given  us  the 
portrait  of  a  Roman  matron,  conceived  in  the  true 
antique  spirit,  and  finished  in  every  part  Although 
Coriolanus  is  the  hero  of  the  play,  yet  much  of  the 
interest  of  the  action  and  the  final  catastrophe 
turn  upon  the  character  of  his  mother,  Volumnia, 
»nd  the  power  she  exercised  over  his  mind,  by 
Irhich,  according  to  the  story,  "she  saved  BontM 

•  In  sU,  about  two  thousanl  rmindf. 


f46  HISTORICAL    CHARACTERS. 

and  lest  her  son."  Her  lofty  patriodsm,  her  patri- 
eian  haughtiness,  her  maternal  pride,  her  eloquence, 
and  her  towering  spirit,  are  exhibited  with  the 
utmost  power  of  effect;  yet  the  truth  of  femalo 
nature  is  beautifully  preserved,  and  the  portrait, 
with  all  its  vigor,  is  without  harshness. 

I  shall  begin  by  illustrating  the  relative  position 
and  feelings  of  the  mother  and  son  ;  as  these  are 
of  the  greatest  importance  in  the  action  of  the 
drama,  and  consequently  most  prominent  in  the 
characters.  Though  Volumnia  is  a  Roman  matron, 
and  though  her  countrj'  owes  its  salvation  to  her, 
it  is  clear  that  her  maternal  pride  and  affection  are 
stronger  even  than  her  patriotism.  Thus  when 
her  son  is  exiled,  she  burst  into  an  imprecation 
against  Rome  and  its  citizens : — 

Now  the  red  pestilence  strikes  all  trades  in  Rome, 
And  occupations  perish ! 

Here  we  have  the  impulses  of  individual  and 
feminine  nature,  overpowering  all  national  and 
habitual  influences.  Volumnia  would  never  have 
exclaimed  like  the  Spartan  mother,  of  her  dead 
wn,  "  Sparta  has  many  others  as  brave  as  he  ; ' 
but  in  a  far  different  spirit  she  says  to  the  Romaii8,-< 

Ere  yoi.  go,  hear  this; 
As  far  as  doth  the  Capitol  exceed 
"Fie  meanest  nonse  in  Rome,  so  far  my  son, 
Whom  you  have  banished,  Joes  exceed  yon  alL 

In  the  very  first  scene,  and  before  the  intitv 
ioction  of  the  principal  personages,  one  citizen 


yOLUMNIA.  S4i 

•twerves  to  another  that  the  military  exploits  </" 
Marcius  were  performed,  not  so  much  for  hi» 
country's  sake  "  as  to  please  his  mother."  By  thli 
admirable  stroke  of  art,  introduced  with  such  sim- 
plicity of  effect,  our  attention  is  aroused,  and  we 
are  prepared  in  the  very  outset  of  the  piece  for 
the  important  part  assigned  "to  Volumnia,  and  foi 
her  share  in  producing  the  catastrophe. 

In  the  first  act  we  have  a  .very  graceful  scene, 
in  which  the  two  Roman  ladies,  the  wife  and  mother 
of  Coriolanua,  are  discovered  at  their  needle-woric, 
conversing  on  his  absence  and  danger,  and  are 
visited  by  Valeria : — 

The  noble  sisters  of  Publicola, 
The  moon  of  Rome ;  chaste  as  the  icicle, 
That's  curded  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow. 
And  hangs  on  Dian's  tempJe! 

Over  this  little  scene  Shakspeare,  without  any 
display  of  learning,  has  breathed  the  very  spirit 
of  classical  antiquitj'.  The  haughty  temper  of 
Volumnia,  her  admiration  of  the  valor  and  high 
bearing  of  her  son,  and  her  proud  but  unselfish 
love  for  him.  are  finely  contrasted  with  the  modest 
sweetness,  he  conjugal  tenderness,  and  the  fond 
solicitude  of  his  wife  Virgilia. 

VOLUMNIA. 

When  yet  he  was  but  tender-bodied,  and  the  only  son 
tf  my  womb ;  when  youth  with  comeliness  plnck'd  aL 
{aze  his  way;  when,  for  a  day  of  king's  entreaties,  a 
mother  should  not  sell  him  an  hour  from  her  beholding; 
.4— considering  how  honor  wool  j  become  such  a  person ; 


148  HISTORICAL   CHAUACTERS. 

that  it  was  no  better  than  picture-like  to  hang  hj  tbt 
wall,  if  renown  made  it  not  stir, — was  pleased  to  let  hin 
seek  danger  where  he  was  like  to  find  fame.  To  a  cmtel 
war  I  sent  him,  from  whence  he  returned,  his  brows  bound 
with  oak.  I  tell  thee,  daughter — 1  sprang  not  more  in  ysj 
at  first  hearing  he  was  a  man-child,  than  now  in  fint  sav- 
ing he  had  proved  himself  a  man. 
• 

VIKGILIA. 

But  had  he  died  in  the  business,  madam?  how  then? 

VOLCMNIA. 

Then  his  good  report  should  have  been  mj  son ;  I  thereto 
would  have  found  issue.  Hear  me  profess  sincerely :  had 
I  a  dozen  sons,  each  in  my  love  alike,  and  none  less  deaf 
than  thine  and  my  good  Marcius,  I  had  rather  eleven  die 
nobly  for  their  country,  than  one  voluptuously  surfeit  oat 
»f  action. 

Enter  a  Gkntlewohah. 

Madam,  the  lady  Valeria  is  come  to  visit  you. 

VIRGIUA. 

Beseech  you,  give  me  leave  to  retire  myself. 

TOLDMSIA. 

Indeed  you  shall  not. 

Methinks  I  hear  hither  your  husband's  drum: 

See  him  pluck  Aufidius  down  by  the  hair: 

As  children  from  a  bear,  the  Voices  shunning  him: 

Methinks  I  see  him  stamp  thus,  and  call  thus — 

"  Come  on,  you  cowards !  you  were  got  in  fear, 

Though  you  were  bom  in  Rome."     His  bloody  brow 

With  his  mail'd  hand  then  wiping,  forth  he  £;oes} 

Like  to  a  harvest-man,  that's  task'd  to  mow 

Or  all,  or  lose  his  hire. 

VIROIUA. 

Uis  bloody  brow !  0  Jupiter,  no  blood  I 


VOLUMNIA.  S4) 

VOLUMNIA, 

Away,  yon  fool !  it  more  becomes  a  man 

Than  gilt  his  trophy.    The  breast  of  Hecuba, 

When  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look'd  not  lovelier 

Than  Hector's  forehead,  when  it  spit  forth  blood 

At  Grecian  swords  contending.     Tell  Valeria 

We  are  fit  to  bid  her  welcome.  [Sxii  OtHk 

VIRGILIA. 

Heavens  bless  my  lord  from  fell  Anfidius  1 

VOLUMNIA. 

He'll  beat  Aufidius's  head  below  his  knee. 
And  tread  upon  his  neck. 

This  distinction  between  the  two  females  is  aa 
mtertssting  and  beautiful  as  it  is  well  sustained. 
Thus  when  the  victory  of  Coriolanus  is  proclaimed, 
Menenius  asks,  "  Is  he  wounded  ?  " 

VIKGIUA. 

Ono,  no,  no! 

VOLUMNIA. 

Tea,  he  is  wounded — I  thank  the  gods  for  it ! 

And  when  he  returns  victorious  from  the  wars,  his 
high-spirited  mother  receives  him  with  blessings 
and  applause — his  gentle  wife  with  "  gracious 
silence"  and  with  tears. 

The  resemblance  of  temper  in  the  mother  and 
the  son,  modified  as  it  is  by  the  difference  of  sex, 
%nd  by  her  greater  age  and  experience,  is  exhibited 
with  admirable  truth.  Volumnia,  with  all  her  pride 
fcnd  spirit,  has  some  prudence  and  self-command 
^  her  language  and  deportirent  all  is  matured  and 


S50  HISTORICAX    CHARACTEBB. 

matronly.  The  dignified  tone  of  authority  sh* 
assumes  towards  her  son,  when  checking  his  head* 
long  impetuosity,  her  respect  and  admiration  for 
bis  noble  qualities,  and  her  strong  sympathy  eveD 
with  the  feelings  she  combats,  are  all  displayed  io 
the  scene  in  which  she  prevails  on  him  to  sootlH 
the  incensed  plebeians. 

VOLUMNIA. 

Pray  be  counsell'd: 
I  have  a  heart  as  little  apt  as  yours, 
Bat  yet  a  brain  that  leads  my  use  of  anger 
To  better  vantage. 

HENENItrS. 

Well  said,  noble  woman: 
Before  he  should  thus  stoop  to  the  herd,  but  that 
The  violent  fit  o'  the  time  craves  it  as  physio 
For  the  whole  state,  I  would  put  mine  armour  no. 
Which  I  can  scarcely  bear. 

OOBIOLAN0S. 

What  must  I  do? 

UKSKNIUB. 

Betcm  to  the  tribunes. 

ooBiouunrs. 
Well. 
What  then?  what  then? 

HENEHIUB 

Repent  what  you  have  spoka. 

COBIOIAKCS. 

For  them  ?    I  cannot  do  it  to  the  godf  t 
Ifuit  I  then  do't  to  them? 


VOLUMNIA.  Ml 

VOItJMNlA. 

You  are  too  absolatet 
rhongh  therein  you  can  never  be  too  noble, 
But  when  extremities  speak. 

I  pr'ythee  now,  my  son, 
•So  to  them  with  this  bonnet  in  thy  hand ; 
And  thus  far  having  stretch'd  it,  (here  be  with  tK«ip»  I 
Thy  knee  bussing  the  stones,  (for  in  such  businoM 
Action  is  eloquent,  and  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant 
More  learned  than  the  ears,)  waving  thy  head, 
Which  often,  thus,  correcting  thy  stout  heart. 
Now  humble,  as  the  ripest  mulberry, 
That  will  not  hold  the  handling.     Or,  say  to  them, 
Thou  art  their  soldier,  and  being  bred  in  broils 
Hast  not  the  soft  way  which,  thou  dost  confess. 
Were  fit  for  thee  to  use,  as  they  to  claim, 
In  asking  their  good  loves ;  but  thou  wilt  frame 
Thyself,  forsooth,  hereafter  theirs,  so  far 
As  thou  hast  power  and  person. 

MENEN1U8. 

This  but  done, 
Even  as  she  speaks,  why  all  their  hearts  were  yonn 
For  they  have  pardons,  being  asked,  as  free 
As  words^o  little  purpose. 

VOLUMNIA. 

Pr'ythee  now. 
Go,  *nd  be  rul'd :  although  I  know  thou  hadst  ratho 
Follow  thine  enemy  in  a  fiery  gulf 
Than  flatter  him  in  a  bower. 

MENENIUS. 

Only  fair  speech- 

COMIKTOS. 

T  think  'twiU  genre,  if  ha 
Can  thereto  frame  his  spirit. 


552  HISTORICAL  CnA.BACTKB8. 

TOLUMinA 

He  mt^t,  ead  will: 
Pi'ythee,  now  say  70a  will,  and  go  about  it. 

CORIOLAITUS. 

Must  I  go  show  them  my  unbarb'd  sconce  ?    Moat  I 
With  my  base  tongae  give  to  my  noble  heart 
A  lie,  that  it  must  bear?    Well,  I  will  do't; 
Yet  were  there  but  this  single  plot  to  lose, 
This  mould  of  Marcins,  they  to  dust  should  grind  it, 
And  throw  it  against  the  wind.    To  the  mariset-plaet 
You  have  put  me  now  to  such  a  part,  which  never 
I  ahall  discharge  to  the  life. 

VOLUMNIA. 

I  pr'ythee  now,  sweet  son,  as  thou  hast  said. 
My  praises  made  thee  first  a  soldier,  so 
To  have  my  praise  for  this,  perform  a  part 
Thou  hast  not  done  before. 

OORIOLAXrS. 

Well,  I  must  do't: 
Away,  my  disposition,  and  possess  me 
Bome  harlot's  spirit ! 

*  ♦  »  *  •   • 

I  will  not  do't: 
Lest  I  sarcease  to  honor  mine  own  truth. 
And  by  my  body's  action,  teach  my  mind 
A  most  inherent  baseness. 

VOLUMNTA. 

At  thy  choice,  ihtn 
To  beg  of  thee,  it  is  my  more  dishonor, 
Than  thou  of  them.     Come  all  tc  ruin :  let 
Thy  mother  rather  feel  thy  pride,  than  fear 
Thy  dangerous  stoutness;  for  I  mock  at  death 
With  as  big  heart  as  thoo.     Do  as  thou  list— 


VOLUMXIA.  SP* 

Tliy  yaliantness  was  mine,  thou  sack'dst  it  from  me* 
But  owe  tliy  pride  thyself. 

CORIOLANCS. 

Pray  be  content; 
Mother,  I  am  going  to  the  market  place — 
Chide  me  no  more. 

Wlien  the  spirit  of  the  mother  and  the  son  are 
brought  into  immediate  collision,  he  yields  before 
her;  the  warrior  who  stemmed  alone  the  whole 
city  of  CorioH,  who  was  ready  to  face  "  the  steep 
Tarpeian  death,  or  at  wild  horses'  heels, — vagabond 
exile — flaying,"  rather  than  abate  one  jot  of  his 
proud  will — shrinks  at  her  rebuke.  The  haughty, 
fiery,  overbearing  temperament  of  Coriolanus,  is 
drawn  in  such  forcible  and  striking  colors,  that 
notliing  can  more  impress  us  with  the  real  grandeui 
and  power  of  Volumnia's  character,  than  his  bound- 
less submission  to  her  will — his  more  than  filial 
tenderness  and  respect. 

Yon  gods !  I  prate. 
And  the  most  noble  mother  of  the  world 
Leave  nnsaluted.     Sink  my  knee  i'  the  earth — 
Of  thy  deep  duty  more  impression  show 
Thau  that  of  common  sons  I 

TMien  his  mother  appears  before  him  as  a  rap 
pliant,  he  exclaims, — 

My  mother  bows ; 

As  if  Olympus  to  a  molehill  should 

In  supplication  cod. 

28 


154  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

Here  the  expression  of  reverence,  and  the  magnit 
icent  image  in  which  it  id  clothed,  are  equally 
characteristic  both  of  the  mother  and  the  son. 

Her  aristocratic  haughtiness  is  a  strong  trjut  in 
A'olumnia's  manner  and  character,  and  her  supreme 
contempt  for  the  plebeians,  whether  they  are  to  be 
defied  or  cajoled,  is  very  like  what  I  have  heard 
expressed  by  some  high-born  and  high-bred  womea 
of  our  own  day. 

I  muse  my  mother 
Does  not  approve  me  further,  who  was  wont 
To  call  them  woollen  vassals;  things  created 
To  buy  and  sell  with  groats ;  to  show  bare  heads 
In  congregations;  to  yawn,  be  still,  and  wonder 
When  one  but  of  my  ordinance  stood  up 
To  sfteak  of  peace  or  war. 

And  Volumnia  reproaching  the  tribunesv- 

'Twas  you  incensed  the  rabble — 
Cats,  that  can  judge  as  fitly  of  his  worth. 
As  I  can  of  those  mysteries  which  Heaven 
Will  not  have  earth  to  know. 

There  Is  all  the  Roman  spirit  in  her  exultataoa 
when  the  trumpets  sound  the  return  of  Coricdanm 

Hark !  the  trumpets ! 
rheee  are  the  ushers  of  Slarcius:  before  him 
He  carries  noise,  and  behind  him  he  leaves  tears. 

And  in  her  speech  to  the  gentle  Virgilia,  who  I| 
weeping  her  husband's  banishment — 

Leave  this  faint  puling!  and  lament  as  I  do, 
In  auger — Juno-like  I 


VOI.UMXIA.  8*^ 

But  the  triumph  of  Volumnia's  chaiactei,  the  full 
display  of  all  her  grandeur  of  soul,  her  patriotism, 
her  strong  affections,  and  her  sublime  eloquence, 
are  reserved  for  her  last  scene,  in  which  she  pleads 
for  the  safety  of  Rome,  and  wins  from  her  angry 
Bon  that  peace  which  all  the  swords  of  Italy  and 
her  confederate  arms  could  not  have  purchased. 
The  strict  and  even  literal  adherence  to  the  truth 
of  history  is  an  additional  beauty. 

Her  famous  speech,  beginning  "  Should  we  be 
silent  and  not  speak,"  is  nearly  word  for  word  from 
Plutarch,  with  some  additional  graces  of  expression, 
and  the  charm  of  metre  superadded.  I  shall  give 
the  last  lines  of  this  address,  as  illustrating  that 
noble  and  irresistible  eloquence  which  was  the 
crowning  ornament  of  the  character.  One  ex- 
quisite touch  of  nature,  which  is  distinguished  by 
italics,  was  beyond  the  rhetorician  and  historian, 
and  belongs  only  to  the  poet. 

Speak  to  me,  son; 
Thou  hast  affected  the  fine  strains  of  honor, 
To  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods; 
To  tear  with  thunder  the  wide  cheeks  o'  the  air, 
And  yet  to  charge  thy  sulphur  with  a  bolt 
That  should  but  rive  an  oak.     Why  dost  not  sp«ak? 
Think'st  thou  it  honorable  for  a  nobleman 
Still  to  remember  wrongs?     Daughter,  speak  you: 
He  cares  not  for  your  weeping.    Speak  thou,  boy; 
Perhaps  thy  childishness  may  move  him  more 
Than  can  our  reasons.    There  is  no  man  in  the  world 
More  bound  to  his  mother ;  yet  here  he  1<  ts  me  pratt 
Like  one  i'  the  s.-ocks.    Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 
Irtxow'd  thy  dear  mothjr  any  courtesy; 


156  HISTORICAL  CBARACTBIM. 

ITAfB  the,  (poor  he7i  I)  fond  of  no  second  broei, 
Has  cluck'a  thee  to  the  wars,  and  safely  home, 
Laden  with  honor.     Siiy  my  reqnesl's  unjust, 
And  spurn  me  back :  but,  if  it  be  not  so. 
Thou  art  not  honest,  and  the  gods  wiU  plague  tbM 
That  thou  restrain'st  from  me  the  duty  which 
To  a  mother's  part  belongs.    He  turns  away: 
Down,  ladies:  let  us  shame  him  with  our  knees. 
To  his  surname  Coriolanus  'longs  more  pride. 
Than  pity  to  our  prayers ;  down,  and  end ; 
This  is  the  last;  so  will  we  home  to  Rome, 
And  die  among  our  neighbors.    Nay,  behold  as;  • 
This  boy,  that  cannot  tell  what  he  would  have, 
But  Imeels,  and  holds  up  hands,  for  fellowship 
Does  reason  our  petition  with  more  strencjtb 
Than  thou  hast  to  deny't.* 


•  The  corresvonding  pa«8ag»  in  the  old  English  Plutarch  ran* 
thus:  "My  son,  yrhj  dost  thou  not  answer  me?  Dost  thon 
think  it  good  altogether  to  give  place  unto  thy  choler  and  re 
verge,  and  thinkest  thon  it  not  honesty  for  thee  to  grant  thy 
Biother'B  request  in  so  weighty  a  cause?  Dost  thou  take  it 
honot-bble  for  a  nobleman  to  lememher  the  wrongs  and  injuriet 
done  him,  and  dost  not  in  like  case  think  it  an  honest  noble- 
man's part  to  l>e  thankful  for  the  goodness  that  parents  do  show 
to  their  children,  acknowledging  the  duty  and  reverence  they 
ought  tu  he&T  unto  them?  No  man  living  is  more  bound  to 
■how  himself  thankful  in  all  parts  and  respects  than  thyself,  who 
■o  universally  showest  all  ingratitude.  Moreover,  my  son,  thon 
bMt  sorely  taken  of  thy  country,  exacting  grievous  payments 
npon  them  in  revenge  of  the  injuries  ofTcred  thee;  besides,  tlion 
haat  not  hitherto  showed  thy  poor  mother  any  courtesy.  And, 
therefore,  it  is  not  only  honest,  but  due  unto  me,  that  without 
jompulsion  I  should  obtain  my  so  just  and  reasonable  requvs' 
■*{  thee.  But  since  by  reason  I  cannot  persuade  ye  to  it,  to  wh&t 
irnrpoee  do  I  defer  my  last  hope?  "  And  with  these  words,  her 
Mit,  his  wife,  and  ciiiidren,  fell  down  upon  their  knee*  btfbit 
kirn 


CONSTANCE.  55? 

It  is  an  instance  of  Sliakspeare's  fine  judgment, 
Ihat  after  this  magnificent  and  touching  piece  of 
eloquence,  which  saved  K,ome,  Volumnia  should 
(peak  no  more,  for  she  could  say  nothing  that 
would  not  deteriorate  from  the  eff*ect  thus  left  on 
the  imagination.  She  is  at  last  dismissed  from  our 
admiring  gaze  amid  the  thunder  of  grateful  accla- 
mations— 

Behold,  our  patroness, — the  life  of  Borne. 

— e©^- 

CONSTANCE. 

Wh  have  seen  that  in  the  mother  of  Coriolanua, 
the  principal  qualities  are  exceeding  pride,  self- 
will,  strong  maternal  affection,  great  power  of 
imagination,  and  energy  of  temper.  Precisely  the 
same  qualities  enter  into  the  mind  of  Constance  of 
Bretagne :  but  in  her  these  qualities  are  so  dif- 
ferently modified  by  circumstances  and  education, 
that  not  even  in  fancy  do  we  think  of  instituting  a 
comparison  between  the  Gothic  grandeur  of  Con- 
stance, and  the  more  severe  and  classical  dignity 
of  the  Roman  matron. 

The  scenes  and  circumstances  with  which  Shak- 
l{)eare  has  surrounded  Constance,  are  strictly  faith- 
Ail  to  the  old  chronicles,  and  are  as  vividly  as  they 
»re  accurately  represented.  On  the  other  hand, 
khe  hints  on  which  the  character  has  been  cou' 


K8  HISTORICAL   CHARACTEK8. 

Btructed,  are  few  and  vague ;  bat  the  portrait 
harmonizes  so  wonderfully  with  its  historic  back* 
ground,  and  with  all  that  later  researches  have  di8< 
covered  relative  to  the  personal  adventures  of 
Constance,  that  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  of 
its  individual  truth.  The  result  of  a  life  of  strange 
vicissitude ;  the  picture  of  a  tameless  will,  and  high 
passions,  forever  struggling  in  vain  against  a  supe- 
rior power:  and  the  real  situation  of  women  in 
those  chivalrous  times,  are  placed  before  us  in  a 
few  noble  scenes.  The  manner  in  which  Shak- 
Bpeare  has  applied  the  scattered  hints  of  history  to 
the  formation  of  the  character,  reminds  us  of  that 
magician  who  collected  the  mangled  limbs  which 
had  been  dispersed  up  and  down,  reunited  them 
into  the  human  form,  and  reanimated  them  with 
the  breathing  and  conscious  spirit  of  life. 

Constance  of  Bretagne  was  the  only  daughter 
and  heiress  of  Conan  IV.,  Duke  of  Bretagne ;  her 
mother  was  Margaret  of  Scotland,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  Malcolm  IV. :  but  little  mention  ia 
uade  of  this  princess  in  the  old  histories ;  but  she 
appears  to  have  inherited  some  portion  of  the  talent 
and  spirit  of  her  father,  and  to  have  transmitted 
them  to  her  daughter.  The  misfortunes  of  Con- 
stance may  be  said  to  have  commenced  before  her 
birth,  and  took  their  rise  in  the  misconduct  of  one 
of  her  female  ancestors.  Her  grfiat-grandmother 
Matilda,  the  wife  of  Conan  HI.,  was  distinguished 
by  her  beauty  and  imperious  temper,  and  not  lesi 
\j  her  gallantries.     Her  husband,  not  thinkin| 


CONSTANCE.  MS 

proper  to  repudiate  her  during  his  lifenme,  con* 
tented  himself  with  disinheriting  her  son  Hoel, 
whom  he  declared  illegitimate ;  and  bequeathed  hia 
dukedom  to  his  daughter  Bertha,  and  her  husband 
Allan  the  Black,  Earl  of  Richmond,  who  were  pro- 
claimed and  acknowledged  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Bretagne. 

Prince  Hoel,  so  far  from  acquiescing  in  his 
father's  will,  immediately  levied  an  army  to  main- 
tain his  rights,  and  a  civil  war  ensued  between  the 
brother  and  sister,  which  lasted  for  twelve  or  four- 
teen years.  Bertha,  whose  reputation  was  not 
much  fairer  than  that  of  her  mother  Matilda,  was 
succeeded  by  her  son  Conan  IV. ;  he  was  young, 
and  of  a  feeble,  vacillating  temper,  and  after  strug- 
gling tor  a  few  years  against  the  increasing  power 
of  his  uncle  Hoel,  and  his  own  rebellious  barons, 
he  called  in  the  aid  of  that  politic  and  ambitious 
monarch,  Henry  H.  of  England.  This  fatal  step 
decided  the  fate  of  his  crown  and  his  posterity ; 
from  the  moment  the  English  set  foot  in  Bretagne, 
that  miserable  country  became  a  scene  of  horrors 
»nd  crimes — oppression  and  perfidy  on  the  one 
hand,  unavailing  struggles  on  the  other.  Ten 
years  of  civil  discord  ensued,  during  which  the 
greatest  part  of  Bretagne  was  desolated,  and  nearly 
a  third  of  the  population  carried  oflP  by  famine  and 
Destilence.  In  the  end,  Conan  was  secured  in  the 
possession  of  his  throne  by  the  assistance  of  the 
English  king,  who,  equally  subtle  and  ambitious, 
contrived  in  the  courso  of  this  warfare  to  strip 


160  HIST.>RICAL  CHARACTERS. 

Conan  of  most  of  his  provinces  by  succesriT* 
treaties;  alienate  the  Breton  nobles  from  theit 
lawful  sovereign,  and  at  length  render  the  Duka 
himself  the  mere  vassal  of  his  power. 

In  the  midst  of  these  scenes  of  turbulence  and 
bloodshed  was  Constance  born,  in  the  year  1164. 
The  English  king  consummated  his  perfidiou 
scheme  of  policy,  by  seizing  on  the  person  of  the 
infant  princess,  before  she  was  three  years  old,  af 
a  hostage  for  her  father.  Afterwards,  by  contract- 
ing her  in  marriage  to  his  third  son,  Geoffrey 
Plantagenet,  he  ensured,  as  he  thought,  the  posses- 
sion  of  the  duchy  of  Bretagne  to  his  own  posterity 

From  this  time  we  hear  no  more  of  the  weak, 
unhappy  Conan,  who,  retiring  from  a  fruitless  con- 
test, hid  himself  in  some  obscure  retreat:  even  the 
date  of  his  death  is  unknown.  Meanwhile  Henry 
openly  claimed  the  duchy  in  behalf  of  his  soa 
Geoffrey  and  the  Lady  Constance;  and  their 
claims  not  being  immediately  acknowledged,  he 
invaded  Bretagne  with  a  large  army,  laid  waste 
the  country,  bribed  or  forced  some  of  the  baroni 
into  submission,  murdered  or  imprisoned  others, 
and,  by  the  most  treacherous  and  barbarous  policy, 
contrived  to  keep  possession  of  the  country  he  had 
thus  seized.  However,  in  order  to  satisfy  the 
Bretons,  who  were  attached  to  the  race  of  their 
ancient  sovereigns,  and  to  give  some  color  to  hii 
anirpation,  he  caused  Geoffrey  and  Constance  t« 
be  solemnly  crowned  at  Rennes,  as  Duke  an^ 
Dache86  of  Bretagne.    This  was  in  the  year  11  •> 


CONSTANCE.  361 

irhen  Jonstance  was  five,  and  Prince  Geoffrey 
tbout  eight,  years  old.  His  father,  Henry,  con- 
tinued to  rule,  or  rather  to  ravage  and  oppress,  the 
country  in  their  name  for  about  fourteen  years, 
during  which  period  we  do  not  hear  of  Constance. 
She  appears  to  have  been  kept  in  a  species  of  con- 
straint as  a  hostage  rather  than  a  sovereign ;  while 
her  husband  Geoffrey,  as  h  *,  grew  up  to  manhood, 
was  too  much  engaged  in  keeping  the  Bretons  in 
order,  and  disputing  his  rights  with  his  father,  to 
think  about  the  completion  of  his  union  with  Con- 
stance, although  his  sole  title  to  the  dukedom  was 
properly  and  legally  in  right  of  his  wife.  At 
length,  in  1182,  the  nuptials  were  formally  cele- 
brated, Constance  being  then  in  her  nineteenth 
year.  At  the  same  time,  she  was  recognized  as 
Duchess  of  Bretagne  de  son  chef,  (that  is,  in  her 
own  right,)  by  two  acts  of  legislation,  which  are 
still  preserved  among  the  records  of  Bretagne,  and 
bear  her  own  seal  and  signature. 

Those  domestic  feuds  which  embittered  the 
whole  life  of  Henry  II.,  and  at  length  broke  his 
heart,  are  well  known.  Of  all  his  sons,  who  were 
in  continual  rebellion  against  him,  Geoffrey  was 
the  most  undutiful,  and  the  most  formidable :  he 
had  all  the  pride  of  the  Plantagenets, — all  the  war- 
like accomplishments  of  his  two  elder  brothers, 
Henry  and  Rirhard;  and  was  the  only  one  who 
«»uld  compete  with  his  father  in  talent,  eloquence, 
»nd  dissimulation.  No  sooner  was  he  the  husband 
of  Constance,  and  in  possession  of  the  throne  of 


162  HI8rORICAL  CHARACTERS. 

Brctagne,  than  he  openly  opposed  his  father ;  in 
other  words,  he  maintained  the  honor  and  interest* 
of  his  wite  and  her  unhappy  country  against  the 
cruelties  and  oppression  of  the  English  plunderers.* 
About  three  years  after  his  marriage,  he  was  in- 
vited to  Paris  for  the  purpose  of  concluding  a 
league,  offensive  and  defensive,  with  the  French 
king:  in  this  journey  he  was  accompanied  by  the 
Duchess  Constance,  and  they  were  received  and 
entertained  with  royal  magnificence.  Geoflrey, 
who  excelled  in  all  chivalrous  accomplishments, 
distinguished  himself  in  the  tournaments  which 
were  celebrated  on  the  occasion ;  but  unfortunately, 
after  an  encounter  with  a  French  knight,  cele* 
brated  for  his  prowess,  he  was  accidentally  flung 
from  his  horse,  and  trampled  to  death  in  the  lists 
before  he  could  be  extricated. 

Constance,  being  now  left  a  widow,  returned  to 
Bretagne,  where  her  barons  rallied  round  her,  and 
acknowledged  her  as  their  sovereign.  The  Salique 
law  did  not  prevail  in  Bretagne,  and  it  appears  that 
in  those  times  the  power  of  a  female  to  possess  and 
transmit  the  rights  of  sovereignty  had  been  recog- 
nized in  several  instances ;  but  Constance  is  the 
lirst  woman  who  exercised  those  rights  in  her  own 
person.  She  had  one  daughter,  Elinor,  born  in 
the  second  year  of  her  marriage,  and  a  few  monthi 
after  her  husband's  death  she  gave  birth  to  a  son. 
The  States  of  Bretagne  were  filled  with  exultation 
ttiAj  required  that  the  infant  prince  should  not  beai 
•  Vide  Darn,  Htotoire  di  BretagM. 


CONSTAXCK.  Mt 

Ae  name  of  his  father, — a  name  which  Constance^ 
la  fond  remem  trance  of  her  husband,  would  have 
Destowed  on  him — still  less  that  of  his  grandfather 
Henry  ;  but  that  of  Arthur,  the  redoubted  hero  of 
their  country,  whose  memory  was  worshipped  by 
the  populace.  Though  the  Arthur  of  romantic 
and  fairy  legends — the  Arthur  of  the  round  table, 
had  been  dead  for  six  centuries,  they  still  looked 
for  his  second  appearance  among  them,  according 
to  the  prophecy  of  Merlin  ;  and  now,  with  fond 
and  short-sighted  enthusiasm,  fixed  their  hopes  on 
the  young  Arthur  as  one  destined  to  redeem  the 
glory  and  independence  of  their  oppressed  and 
miserable  country.  But  in  the  very  midst  of  the 
rejoicings  which  succeeded  the  birth  of  the  prince, 
his  grandfather,  Henry  H.,  demanded  to  have  the 
possession  and  guardianship  of  his  person  ;  and  on 
the  spirited  refusal  of  Constance  to  yield  her  son 
into  his  power,  he  invaded  Bretagne  with  a  large 
army,  plundering,  burning,  devastating  the  country 
as  he  advanced.  He  seized  Rennes,  the  capital,  and 
having  by  the  basest  treachery  obtained  possession 
of  the  persons  both  of  the  young  duchess  and  her 
children,  he  married  Constance  forcibly  to  one  ot 
his  own  favorite  adherents,  Randal  de  Blondeville^ 
Earl  of  Chester,  and  conferred  on  him  the  duchy 
»f  Bretagne,  to  be  held  as  a  fief  of  the  English 
irown. 

The  Earl  of  Chester,  though  a  brave  knigh^ 
•nd  one  of  the  greatest  barons  of  England,  had  no 
^tensions  to  so  high  an  alliance ;  nor  did  he  p<w> 


164  HISTORICAL   CHARACTKRS. 

■ess  any  qualities  or  personal  accomplishmenfa 
which  might  have  reconciled  Constance  to  him  aa 
K  husband.  He  was  a  man  of  diminutive  stature 
and  mean  appearance,  but  of  haughty  and  fero- 
cious manners,  and  unbounded  ambition.*  In  a 
conference  between  this  Earl  of  Chester  and  the 
Earl  of  Perche,  in  Lincoln  cathedral,  the  latter 
taunted  Randal  with  his  insignificant  person,  and 
called  him  contemptuously  '■'■Dwarf"  "  Sayst  thou 
so  1 "  replied  Randal ;  "  I  vow  to  God  and  our 
lady,  whose  church  this  is,  that  ere  long  I  will 
seem  to  thee  high  as  that  steeple ! "  He  was  aa 
good  as  his  word,  when,  on  ascending  the  throne 
of  Brittany,  the  Earl  of  Perche  became  his  vassal. 
We  cannot  know  what  measures  were  used  to 
force  this  degradation  on  the  reluctant  and  high- 
spirited  Constance ;  it  is  only  certain  that  she  never 
considered  her  marriage  in  the  light  of  a  sacred  ob- 
ligation, and  that  she  took  the  first  opportunity  of 
legally  breaking  from  a  chain  which  could  scarcely 
be  considered  as  legally  binding.  For  about  a  year 
she  was  obliged  to  allow  this  detested  husband  the 
title  of  Duke  of  Bretagne,  and  he  administered  the 
government  without  the  slightest  reference  to  her 
will,  even  in  form,  till  1189,  when  Henry  H.  died, 
execrating  himself  and  his  undutiful  childrea. 
Whatever  great  and  good  qualities  this  monau^h 
may  have  possessed,  his  conduct  in  Bretagne  waa 
aniformly  detestable.  Even  the  unfiiial  behavioi 
if  his  SODS  may  be  extenuated ;  for  while  he  spent 
•  Ttd€  Sii  Peter  Leyceeter's  Antiquities  of  Chetttr. 


CON8TAXCE.  8W 

liis  Hfe,  and  sacrificed  his  peace,  and  violated  uvery 
principle  of  honor  and  humanity  to  compass  their 
political  aggrandizement,  he  was  guilty  of  atrocious 
injustice  towards  them,  and  set  them  a  bad  exam- 
ple in  his  own  person. 

The  tidings  of  Henry's  death  had  no  sooner 
reached  Bretagne  than  the  barons  of  that  country 
rose  with  one  accord  against  his  government,  ban- 
ished or  massacred  his  officers,  and,  sanctioned  by 
the  Duchess  Constance,  drove  Randal  de  Blonde- 
ville  and  his  followers  from  Bretagne ;  he  retired 
to  his  earldom  of  Chester,  there  to  brood  over  his 
injuries,  and  meditate  vengeance. 

In  the  mean  time,  Richard  I.  ascended  the  Eng- 
lish throne.  Soon  afterwards  he  embarked  on  hia 
celebrated  expedition  to  the  Holy  Land,  having 
previously  declared  Prince  Arthur,  the  only  son  of 
Constance,  heir  to  all  his  dominions.* 

His  absence,  and  that  of  many  of  her  own  tur- 
bulent barons  and  encroaching  neighbors,  left  to 
Constance  and  her  harassed  dominions  a  short 
mterval  of  profound  peace.  The  historians  of  that 
periofl,  occupied  by  the  warlike  exploits  of  the 
French  and  English  kings  in  Palestine,  make  but 
little  mention  of  the  domestic  events  of  Europe  dur- 
ing their  absence ;  but  it  is  no  slight  encomium  on 
the  character  of  Constance,  that  Bretagne  flour- 
"••bed  under  her  government,  and  began  to  recover 
from  the  effects  of  twenty  years  of  desolating  war. 
The  seven  years  during  which  she  ruled  as  aa 
•  Bx  the  tntity  ol  Messina,  1190 


3C6  HISTORICAL   CnAKACTF.RS. 

independent  sovereign,  were  not  marked  by  anj 
events  of  importance;  but  in  the  year  1196  ahi 
caused  her  son  Arthur,  then  nine  years  of  age,  to 
be  acknowledged  Duke  of  Bretagne  by  the  States, 
and  associated  him  with  herself  in  all  the  acts  c£ 
government 

There  was  more  of  maternal  fondness  than  policy 
in  this  measure,  and  it  cost  her  dear.  Richard, 
that  royal  firebrand,  had  now  returned  to  England : 
by  the  intrigues  and  representations  of  Earl  Ran- 
dal, his  attention  was  turned  to  Bretagne.  He 
expressed  extreme  indignation  that  Constance 
should  have  proclaimed  her  son  Duke  of  Bretagne, 
and  her  partner  in  power,  without  his  consent,  be 
being  the  feudal  lord  and  natural  guardian  of  the 
young  prince.  After  some  excuses  and  represent- 
ations on  the  part  of  Constance,  he  affected  to  be 
pacified,  and  a  friendly  interview  was  appointed  at 
Pontorson,  on  the  frontiers  of  Normandy. 

We  can  hardly  reconcile  the  cruel  and  perfidious 
scenes  which  follow  with  those  romantic  and  chiv- 
alrous associations  which  illustrate  the  memory  of 
Coeur-de-Lion — the  friend  of  Blondel,  and  the  an- 
tagonist of  Saladin.  Constance,  perfectly  unsus- 
picious of  the  meditated  treason,  accepted  the 
invitation  of  her  brother-in-law,  and  set  out  from 
flennes  with  a  small  but  magnificent  retinue  to  join 
him  at  Pontorson.  On  the  road,  and  within  sight 
of  the  town,  the  Earl  of  Chester  was  posted  with  a 
troop  of  Richard's  soldiery,  and  while  the  Dachesi 
prepared  to  enter  the  gates,  where  she  expected  ts 


CONSTANCY.  861 

be  received  with  honor  and  welcome,  he  suddenly 
rushed  from  his  ambuscade,  fell  upon  her  and  her 
luite,  put  the  latter  to  flight,  and  carried  oif  Con- 
itance  to  the  strong  Castle  of  St.  Jaques  de  Beuv- 
pon,  where  he  detained  her  a  prisoner  for  eighteen 
months.  The  chronicle  does  not  tell  us  how  Ran- 
dal treated  his  unfortunate  wife  during  this  long 
imprisonment.  She  was  absolutely  in  his  power ; 
none  of  her  own  people  were  suffered  to  approach 
her,  and  whatever  might  have  been  his  behavior 
towards  her,  one  thing  alone  is  certain,  that  so  far 
from  softening  her  feelings  towards  him,  it  seems  to 
have  added  tenfold  bitterness  to  her  abhorrence 
and  her  scorn. 

The  barons  of  Bretagne  sent  the  Bishop  of 
Rennes  to  complain  of  this  violation  of  faith  and 
justice,  and  to  demand  the  restitution  of  the 
Duchess.  Richard  meanly  evaded  and  tempor- 
ized :  he  engaged  to  restore  Constance  to  liberty 
on  certain  conditions ;  but  this  was  merely  to  gain 
time.  When  the  stipulated  terms  were  complied 
with,  and  the  hostages  delivered,  the  Bretons  sent 
a  herald  to  the  English  king,  to  require  him  to 
fulfil  his  part  of  the  treaty,  and  restore  their  be- 
loved Constance.  Richard  replied  with  insolent 
defiance,  refused  to  deliver  up  either  the  hostagei 
or  Constance,  and  marched  his  army  into  the  heart 
•f  the  country. 

All  that  Bretagne  had  sufl'ered  previously  was  af 
nothing  compared  to  this  terrible  invasion  ;  and  all 
Out  the  humane  and  peaceful  government  of  Con* 


B68  HISTORICAL   CUARACTERtr. 

Btance  had  effected  during  seven  years  was  at  onc« 
annihilated.  The  English  barons  and  their  savage 
ancJ  mercenary  followers  spread  themselves  through 
the  country,  which  they  wasted  with  fire  and 
sword.  The  castles  of  those  who  ventured  to  de- 
fend themselves  were  razed  to  the  ground ;  the 
towns  and  villages  plundered  and  burnt,  and  the 
wretched  inhabitants  fled  to  the  caves  and  forests ; 
but  not  even  there  could  they  find  an  asylum ;  by 
the  orders,  and  in  the  presence  of  Richard,  the 
woods  were  set  on  fire,  and  hundreds  either  per- 
ished in  the  flames,  or  were  suffocated  in  the 
smoke. 

Constance,  meanwhile,  could  only  weep  in  her 
captivity  over  the  miseries  of  her  country,  and 
tremble  with  all  a  mother's  fears  for  the  safety  of 
her  son.  She  had  placed  Arthur  under  the  care 
of  William  Desroches,  the  seneschal  of  her  palace, 
a  man  of  mature  age,  of  approved  valor,  and  devot- 
edly attached  to  her  family.  This  faithful  servant 
threw  himself,  with  his  young  charge,  into  the  for- 
tress of  Brest,  where  he  for  some  time  defied  the 
power  of  the  English  king. 

But  notwithstanding  the  brave  resistance  of  the 
nobles  and  people  of  Bretagne,  they  were  obliged 
to  submit  to  the  conditions  impoaed  by  Richard 
By  a  treaty  concluded  in  1198,  of  which  the  temu 
are  not  exactly  known,  Constance  was  delivered 
from  her  captivity,  though  not  from  her  husband 
but  in  the  following  year,  when  the  death  of  Bicb* 
krd  had  restored  her  to  some  degree  of  indepeik> 


CONSTANCE.  369 

ilenc^,  the  first  use  she  made  of  it  was  to  divorce 
herself  fiom  Randal.  She  took  this  step  with  her 
usual  precipitancy,  not  waiting  for  the  sanction  of  • 
the  Pope,  as  was  the  custom  in  those  days ;  and 
•oou  afterwards  she  gave  her  hand  to  Guy,  Count 
fe  Thouars,  a  man  of  courage  and  integrity,  who 
for  some  time  maintained  the  cause  of  his  wife  and 
her  son  against  the  power  of  England.  Arthur 
was  now  fourteen,  and  the  legitimate  heir  of  all 
the  dominions  of  his  uncle  Richard.  Constance 
placed  him  under  the  guardianship  of  the  king  of 
France,  who  knighted  the  young  prince  with  his 
own  hand,  and  solemnly  swore  to  defend  his  rights 
against  his  usurping  uncle  John. 

It  is  at  this  moment  that  the  play  of  King  John 
opens;  and  history  is  followed  as  closely  as  the 
dramatic  form  would  allow,  to  the  death  of  John. 
The  real  fate  of  poor  Arthur,  after  he  had  been 
abandoned  by  the  French,  and  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  his  uncle,  is  now  ascertained ;  but  accord- 
ing to  the  chronicle  from  which  Shakspeare  drew 
his  materials,  he  was  killed  in  attempting  to  escape 
fipom  the  castle  of  Falaise.  Constance  did  not  live 
to  witness  this  consummation  of  her  calamities ; 
within  a  few  months  after  Arthur  was  taken  pris- 
»ner,  in  1201,  she  died  suddenly,  before  she  had 
attained  her  thirty-ninth  year ;  but  the  cause  of  her 
death  is  not  specified. 

Her  eldest  daughter  Elinor,  the  legitimate  heiress 
of  England,  Normandy,  and  Bretagne,  died   in 
v^tirity  ;  having  been  kept  a  prisoner  in  Bristo] 
M 


170  HISTORICAL  CHARACTEBS. 

Castle  from  the  age  of  fifteen.  She  was  at  that 
time  so  beautiful,  that  she  was  called  proverbially 
"  La  belle  Breton  ne,"  and  by  the  English  the 
"  Fair  Maid  of  Brittany."  She,  like  her  brother 
Arthur,  was  sacrificed  to  the  ambition  of  her  uncles. 

Of  the  two  daughters  of  Constance  by  Guy  de 
Thouars,  the  eldest,  Alice,  became  Duchess  of 
Bretagne,  and  married  the  Count  de  Dreux,  of  the 
royal  blood  of  France.  The  sovereignty  of  Bre- 
tagne was  transmitted  through  her  descendants  in 
an  uninterrupted  line,  till,  by  the  marriage  of  the 
celebrated  Anne  de  Bretagne  with  Charles  VIIL 
of  France,  her  dominions  were  forever  united  with 
the  French  monarchy. 

In  considering  the  real  history  of  Constance, 
three  things  must  strike  us  as  chiefly  remarkable. 

First,  that  she  is  not  accused  of  any  vice,  or  any 
act  of  injustice  or  violence ;  and  this  praise,  though 
poor  and  negative,  should  have  its  due  weight,  eon- 
sidering  the  scanty  records  that  remain  of  her 
troubled  life,  and  the  period  at  which  she  lived — 
a  period  in  which  crimes  of  the  darkest  dye  were 
familiar  occurrences.  Her  father,  Conan,  was  con- 
videred  as  a  gentle  and  amiable  prince — "  gentle 
even  to  feebleness ; "  yet  we  are  told  that  on  one 
occasion  he  acted  over  again  the  tragedy  of  Ugo- 
Uno  and  Kuggiero,  when  he  shut  up  the  Count  de 
Dol,  with  his  two  sons  and  his  nephew,  in  a  dungeoiv 
and  deliberately  starved  them  to  death  ;  an  evenf 
fecordid  without  any  particular  comment  by  the 
old  chroniclers  of  Bretagne.    It  Also  appears  tha^ 


CONSTANCE.  371 

iaiing  those  intervals  when  Constance  administered 
the  government  of  her  states  with  some  degree  o£ 
independence,  the  country  prospered  under  her 
■way,  and  that  she  possessed  at  all  times  the  love 
of  her  people  and  the  respect  of  her  nobles. 

Secondly,  no  imputation  whatever  has  been  cast 
on  the  honor  of  Constance  as  a  wife  and  as  a  woman. 
The  old  historians,  who  have  treated  in  a  very  un- 
ceremonious style  the  levities  of  her  great-grand- 
mother Matilda,  her  grandmother  Bertha,  her  god- 
mother Constance,  and  her  mother-in-law  ElinoFj 
treat  the  name  and  memory  of  our  Lady  Constance 
with  uniform  respect 

Her  third  marriage,  with  Guy  de  Thouars,  has 
been  censured  as  impolitic,  but  has  also  been  de- 
fended ;  it  can  hardly,  considering  her  age,  and 
the  circumstances  in  which  she  was  placed,  be  a 
just  subject  of  reproach.  During  her  hated  union 
•with  Randal  de  Blondeville,  and  the  years  passed 
in  a  species  of  widowhood,  she  conducted  herself 
with  propriety :  at  least  I  can  find  no  reason  to 
judge  otherwise. 

Lastly,  we  are  struck  by  the  fearless,  determined 
Bpirit,  amounting  at  times  to  rashness,  which  Pon- 
itance  displayed  on  several  occasions,  when  left  to 
Ibe  free  exercise  of  her  own  power  and  will ;  yet 
We  see  how  frequently,  with  all  this  resolution  and 
pride  of  temper,  she  became  a  mere  instrument  in 
Jie  hands  of  others,  and  a  victim  to  the  superior 
iraft  or  power  of  her  enemies.  The  inference  it 
UAToidable  ;  there  mu<>t  have  existed  in  the  mind 


572  HISTORICAL  CHABACTEKS. 

»f  Constance,  with  all  her  noble  and  amiable  qaal 
ties,  a  deficiency  somewhere,  a  want  of  firmneaa 
A  want  of  judgment  or  wariness,  and  a  total  want 
of  self-control. 

«  •  •  •  « 

In  the  play  of  Bang  John,  the  three  principal 
characters  are  the  King,  Falconbridge,  and  Lady 
Constance.  The  first  b  drawn  forcibly  and  accu- 
rately from  history :  it  reminds  us  of  Titian's  por- 
trait of  Caesar  Borgia,  in  which  the  hatefulness  of 
the  subject  is  redeemed  by  the  masterly  skill  of  the 
artist, — the  truth,  and  power,  and  wonderful  beauty 
of  the  execution.  Falconbridge  is  the  spirited 
creation  of  the  poet.  ♦  Constance  is  certainly  an 
historical  personage ;  but  the  form  which,  when 
we  meet  it  on  the  record  of  history,  appears  like  a 
pale  indistinct  shadow,  half  melted  into  its  obscuro 
background,  starts  before  us  into  a  strange  relief 
and  palpable  breathing  reality  upon  the  page  (rf* 
Shakspeare. 

Whenever  we  think  of  Constance,  it  is  in  her 
maternal  character.  All  the  interest  which  she 
excites  in  the  drama  turns  upon  her  situation  aa 
the  mother  of  Arthur.     Every  circumstance  in 

*  Malone  sajrs,  that  "  in  expanding  tlie  cliaracter  of  tlM  baa* 
\a*i,  Stiatupeare  seems  to  have  proceeded  on  the  following  i 
hint  in  an  old  play  on  the  story  of  King  John : — 

Next  them  a  bastard  of  the  king's  deceased— 
A  hardy  wild-head,  rough  and  yenturoiu." 

It  k  easy  to  say  this ;  yet  who  but  Shakspeare  oonld 
Hn,M  the  lasi  line  into  a  Falconkridge? 


CONSTANCE.  373 

Irliich  she  is  placed,  every  sentiment  she  utters,  has 
%  reference  to  him ,  and  she  is  represented  through 
the  whole  of  the  scenes  in  which  she  is  engaged,  aa 
alternately  pleading  for  the  rights,  and  trembling 
for  the  existence  of  her  son. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  Merope.  In  the 
four  tragedies  of  which  her  story  forms  the  subject,* 
we  see  her  but  in  one  point  of  view,  namely,  as  a 
mere  impersonation  of  the  maternal  feeling.  The 
poetry  of  the  situation  is  every  thing,  the  character 
nothing.  Interesting  as  she  is,  take  Merope  out 
of  the  circumstances  in  which  she  is  placed, — take 
away  her  son,  for  whom  she  trembles  from  the  first 
scene  to  the  last,  and  Merope  in  herself  is  nothing ; 
Bhe  melts  away  into  a  name,  to  which  we  can  fix 
no  other  characteristic  by  which  to  distinguish  her. 
We  recognize  her  no  longer.  Her  position  is  that 
of  an  agonized  mother ;  and  we  can  no  more  fancy 
her  under  a  different  aspect,  than  we  can  imagine 
the  statue  of  Niobe  in  a  different  attitude. 

But  while  we  contemplate  the  character  of  Con- 
stance, she  assumes  before  us  an  individuality  per- 
fectly distinct  from  the  circumstances  around  her. 
The  action  calls  forth  her  maternal  feelings,  and 
places  them  in  the  most  prominent  point  of  view  : 
but  with  Constance,  as  with  a  real  himian  being, 


•  ThB  Greek  Merop«,  which  was  esteemed  one  of  the  finest  ol 
the  tragedies  of  Euripides,  is  unhappily  lost;  those  of  Maffel,  Al- 
leri,  and  Voltaire,  are  well  known.  There  is  another  Merope  in 
Italian,  which  I  har^  not  seen :  the  Bni^lish  Merope  is  mersly  w 
td  translation  from  Voltaire 


V74  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

Ihe  maternal  affections  are  a  powerful  instinct,  moil< 
l6ed  by  other  faculties,  sentiments,  and  impulaes, 
making  up  the  individual  character.  We  think  ot 
her  as  a  mother,  because,  as  a  mother  distracted 
for  the  loss  of  her  son,  she  is  immediately  presented 
before  us,  and  calls  forth  our  sympathy  and  our 
tears ;  but  we  infer  the  rest  of  her  character  fiom 
what  we  see,  as  certainly  and  as  completely  is  ii 
we  had  known  her  whole  course  of  life. 

That  which  strikes  us  as  the  principal  attribute 
of  Constance  is  power — power  of  imagination,  of 
will,  of  passion,  of  affection,  of  pride :  the  moral 
energy,  that  faculty  which  is  principally  exercised 
in  self-control,  and  gives  consistency  to  the  rest,  is 
deficient ;  or  rather,  to  speak  more  correctly,  the 
extraordinary  development  of  sensibility  and  imag- 
ination, which  lends  to  the  character  its  rich  poetical 
coloring,  leaves  the  other  qualities  comparatively 
subordinate.  Hence  it  is  that  the  whole  complexion 
of  the  character,  notwithstanding  its  amazing  gran- 
deur, is  so  exquisitely  feminine.  The  weakness  of 
the  woman,  who  by  the  very  consciousness  of  thai 
weakness  is  worked  up  to  desperation  and  defiance, 
the  fluctuations  of  temper  and  the  bursts  of  sublime 
passion,  the  terrors,  the  impatience,  and  the  tears, 
■re  all  most  true  to  feminine  nature.  The  energy 
»f  Constance  not  being  based  upon  strength  of 
character,  rises  and  falls  with  the  tide  vf  passion 
H«?r  haughty  spirit  swells  against  resistance,  and  ii 
ixcited  into  frenzy  by  sorrow  and  disappointment 
vhile  neither  from  her  towering  pride,  nor  hei 


CONSTANCE  87ft 

itveugth  of  intellect,  can  she  borrow  patience  to 
lubmit,  or  fortitude  to  endure.  It  is,  therefore,  with 
perfect  truth  of  nature,  that  Constance  is  first  intTO> 
duced  as  pleading  for  peace. 

Stay  for  an  answer  to  your  embassy, 
Lest  unadvised  j'ou  stain  j'our  swords  with  blood: 
My  Lord  Chatillou  may  from  England  bring 
That  right  in  peace,  which  here  we  urge  in  w; 
And  then  we  shall  repent  each  drop  of  blood. 
That  hot,  rash  haste  so  indirectly  shed. 

And  that  the  same  woman,  when  all  her  passione 
are  roused  by  the  sense  of  injury,  should  afterwards 
exclaim. 

War,  war !  No  peace !  peace  is  to  me  a  war ! 

That  she  should  be  ambitious  for  her  son,  proud  of 
his  high  birth  and  royal  rights,  and  violent  in  de- 
fending them,  is  most  natural ;  but  I  cannot  agree 
with  those  who  think  that  in  the  mind  of  Constance, 
ambition — that  is,  the  love  of  dominion  for  its  own 
sake — is  either  a  strong  motive  or  a  strong  feeling : 
it  could  hardly  be  so  where  the  natural  impulses 
and  the  ideal  power  predominate  in  so  high  a 
degree.  The  vehemence  with  which  she  asserts 
the  just  and  legal  rights  of  her  son  is  that  of  a  fond 
mother  and  a  proud-spirited  woman,  stung  with  tho 
lense  of  injury,  and  herself  a  reigning  sovereign, 
— by  birth  and  right,  if  not  in  fact :  yet  when  be- 
reaved  of  her  son,  gr'ef  not  only  "  fills  the  room  up 
«»f  her  absent  child,"  but  seems  to  absorb  every 
«ther  faculty  and  foeh'ng — even  pride  and  anger 


176  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

It  in  true  that  she  exults  over  him  as  one  wbom 
nature  and  fortune  had  destined  to  be  great,  but 
in  her  distraction  for  his  loss,  she  thinks  of  him 
only  as  her  "  Pretty  Arthur." 

0  lord !  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world  I 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrow's  cure  I 

No  other  feeling  can  be  traced  through  the  whola 
of  her  frantic  scene :  it  is  grief  only,  a  mother'i 
heart-rending,  soul-absorbing  grief,  and  nothing 
else.  Not  even  indignation,  or  the  desire  of  re« 
venge,  interfere  with  its  soleness  and  intensity 
An  ambitious  woman  would  hardly  have  thus  ad- 
dressed the  cold,  wily  Cardinal : — 

And,  Father  Cardinal,  I  have  heard  yon  say, 

That  we  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  heavvu. 

If  that  be  true,  I  shall  see  my  boy  again : 

Fo""  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  "he  first  male  childf 

To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire, 

There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  bom. 

But  now  will  canker  eat  ray  bud. 

And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek. 

And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost; 

As  dim  and  merge  as  an  ague's  fit; 

And  so  he'll  die ;  and  rising  so  again, 

When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 

1  "ihall  not  know  him :  therefore  never,  never. 
Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more '. 

The  bewildered  pathos  and  poetry  of  this  addreai 
eoa!d  be  natural  in  r  o  woman,  who  did  not  unita 
liko  Constance,  the  most  passionate  sensibility  with 
Itie  most  vivid  imagination. 


COXSTANCB.  871 

It  is  troe  tliat  Queen  Elinor  calls  her  on  one  oo 
tasion,  "  ambitious  Constance  ; "  but  the  epithet  ift 
rather  the  natural  expression  of  Elinor's  own  fear 
fcnd  hatred  than  really  applicable.*  Elinor,  in 
whom  age  had  subdued  all  pcissions  but  ambition, 
dreaded  the  mother  of  Arthur  as  her  rival  m 
power,  and  for  that  reason  only  opposed  the  clfiima 
of  the  son  :  but  I  conceive,  that  in  a  woman  yet  ia 
the  prime  of  life,  and  endued  with  the  peculiar 
disposition  of  Constance,  the  mere  love  of  power 
would  be  too  much  modified  by  fancy  and  feehng 
to  be  called  a  passion. 

In  fact,  it  is  not  pride,  nor  temper,  nor  ambition, 
nor  even  maternal  affection,  which  in  Constance 
gives  the  prevailing  tone  to  the  whole  character ' 
it  is  the  predominance  of  imagination-  I  do  net 
mean  in  the  conception  of  the  dramatic  portrait, 
but  in  the  temperament  of  the  woman  herself.  In 
the  poetical,  fanciful,  excitable  cast  of  her  mind,  in 
the  excess  of  the  ideal  power,  tinging  all  her  affec- 
tions, exalting  all  her  sentiments  and  thoughts,  and 
animating  the  expression  of  both,  Constance  can 
only  be  compared  to  Juliet 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  through  the  power  of 
imagination  that  when  under  the  influence  of 
excited  temper,  Constance  is  not  a  mere  incensed 
iroman ;  nor  does  she,  in  the  style  of  Yolumnia, 

•  "  Queen  Elinor  saw  that  if  he  were  king,  how  his  mothel 
Constance  wouid  look  to  bear  the  most  rule  in  the  realm  of  Eng 
wid,  till  her  son  shoula  come  of  a  lawful  age  to  gorem  et  hia 

*lf  "— HOLINSHH). 


B78  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

*•  lament  in  anger,  Juno-like,"  but  rather  like  • 
ribyl  in  a  fury.  Her  sarcasms  come  down  like 
thunderbolts.    In  her  famous  address  to  Austria — 

0  Lyraoges!  0  Austria!  thou  dost  shame 
That    bloody  spoil!    thou    slave!    thou    wretch!    thoB 
coward!  &c. 

It  is  as  if  she  had  concentrated  the  burning  spirit 
of  scorn,  and  dashed  it  in  his  face :  every  word 
■eems  to  blister  where  it  falls.  In  the  scohling 
scene  between  her  and  Queen  Elinor,  the  laconic 
insolence  of  the  latter  is  completely  overborne  by 
the  torrent  of  bitter  contumely  which  bursts  from 
the  lips  of  Constance,  clothed  in  the  most  energetic^ 
and  oflen  in  the  most  figurative  expressions. 

ELINOR. 

Who  is  it  thou  dost  call  usurper,  France? 

CONSTANCE. 

Let  me  make  answer;  Thy  usurping  son. 

EUXOR. 

Out  insolent !  thy  bastard  shall  be  king, 

That  thou  may'st  be  a  queen,  and  check  the  wirridi 

CONSTANCE. 

My  bed  was  ever  to  thy  son  as  true, 

As  thine  was  to  thy  husband;  and  this  boy 

Liker  in  feature  to  his  father  Geffrey, 

Than  thou  and  John  in  manners:  being  aa  like 

Ab  rain  to  water,  or  devil  to  his  dam. 

Uy  boy  a  bastard !    By  my  soul,  I  think 


CONSTANCK.  871 

His  father  never  was  so  true  begot; 

It  cannot  be,  an  if  thou  wert  his  mother. 

ELINOR. 

There's  a  gpoi  mother,  boy,  that  blots  thy  tVh«r. 

CONSTANCY. 

There's  a  good  grandam,  boy,  that  would  blot  thMi 


ELINOR. 

Gome  to  thy  grandam,  child. 

CONSTANCE. 

Do  child ;  go  to  its  grandam,  child : 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  its  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig: 
There's  a  good  grandam. 

ARTHUR. 

Good  my  mother,  peace! 
I  would  that  I  were  low  la.d  in  my  grave; 
I  am  not  worth  this  coil  that's  made  for  me 

KLINOK. 

Hi*  motlier  shames  him  so,  poor  boy,  he  weeps. 

CONSTANCE. 

How  8han.3  upon  you,  whe'r  she  does  or  no ! 

His  grandam' s  wrongs,  and  not  his  mother's  shame, 

Draw  those  heaven-moving  pearls  from  his  poor  eyet 

Which  heaven  shall  take  in  nature  of  a  fee: 

Ay,  with  these  crystal  beads  heav'n  shall  be  Iribetf 

To  do  him  justice,  and  revenge  on  you. 


180  UISTORICAI.  CHARACTKBa. 

KLtKOR. 

Thoa  monstrous  slanderer  of  heaven  and  eaitiil 

CON8TANCB. 

Thou  monstrous  injurer  of  heaven  and  earth! 
Call  me  not  slanderer;  thou  and  thine  usurp 
The  dominations,  royalties,  and  rights 
Of  this  oppressed  boy.    This  is  thy  eldest  soo'i  MB 
Infortunate  in  nothing  but  in  thee. 

«  «  «  •  • 

ELIHOR. 

Thou  unadvised  scold,  I  can  produce 
A  will  that  bars  the  title  of  thy  son. 

CONSTANCE. 

Ay,  who  doubts  that?    A  will!  a  wicked  will— 
A  woman's  will — ^a  canker'd  grandam's  will  I 

KING    FHIUP. 

Peace,  lady:  pause,  or  be  more  moderate. 

And  in  a  very  opposite  mood,  when  struggling 
With  the  consciousness  of  her  own  helpless  situ^ 
tion,  the  same  susceptible  and  excitable  fancy  ntill 
predominates : — 

Thou  shalt  be  punish'd  for  thus  frighting  me; 

For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears ; 

Oppressed  with  wrongs,  and  therefore  full  of  ftan^ 

A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears ; 

A  woman,  naturally  bom  to  fears; 

And  thongh  thou  now  confess  thou  didst  but  jeit 

With  my  vexed  spirits,  I  cannot  take  a  truce, 

But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this  day. 


CONBTANCR.  88| 

Wliat  doat  thou  mean  by  shaking  of  thy  head  ? 
Why  dost  thou  look  so  sadly  on  my  son  ? 
What  means  that  hand  upon  that  breast  of  thind? 
Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum. 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  his  bounds  ? 
Ue  these  sad  signs  confirmers  of  thy  words  ? 

*  *  *  *  m 

Fellow,  begone !  I  cannot  brook  thy  sight — 
This  uews  hath  made  thee  a  most  ugly  man ! 

It  is  the  power  of  imagination  which  gives  so 
peculiar  a  tinge  to  the  maternal  tenderness  of  Con- 
Btance ;  she  not  only  loves  her  son  with  the  fond 
instinct  of  a  mother's  affection,  but  she  loves  him 
with  her  poetical  imagination,  exults  in  his  beauty 
and  his  royal  birth,  hangs  over  him  with  idolatry, 
and  sees  his  infant  brow  already  encircled  with  the 
diadem.  Her  proud  spirit,  her  ardent  enthusiastic 
fancy,  and  her  energetic  self-will,  all  combine  with 
her  maternal  love  to  give  it  that  tone  and  character 
which  belongs  to  her  only  :  hence  that  most  beauti- 
ful address  to  her  son,  which  coming  from  the 
lips  of  Constance,  is  as  full  of  nature  and  truth  ai 
of  pathos  and  poetry,  and  which  we  could  hardly 
lympathize  with  in  any  other : — 

ARTHUR. 

I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content. 

CONSTANCE. 

If  then,  that  bid'st  me  be  content,  wert  grim, 
Ogly,  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  womb, 
Fall  of  unpleasing  blots  and  sightless  staioti 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigkmt. 


IBS  HISTOBICAL  CHARAC1-EB8 

Patched  with  fool  moles  and  eye-ofTending  iiiark% 
I  would  not  care — I  then  would  be  content ; 
For  then  I  should  not  love  thee;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a  crown. 
But  thou  ai-t  fair,  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy ! 
Nature  and  Fortune  join M  to  make  thee  great: 
Of  Nature's  gifts  thou  mayest  with  lilies  boast, 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose :  but  Fortune,  0 1 
She  is  corrupted,  chang'd,  and  won  from  thee; 
She  adulterates  hourly  with  thine  uncle  John; 
And  with  her  golden  hand  hath  pluck' d  on  Fraooe 
To  tread  down  fair  respect  of  sovereignty. 

It  is  this  exceeding  viyacity  of  imaginatiM 
which  in  the  end  turns  sorrow  to  frenzy.  Constance 
is  not  only  a  bereaved  and  doating  mother,  but  a 
generous  woman,  betrayed  by  her  own  rash  confi- 
dence ;  in  whose  mind  the  sense  of  injury  mingling 
with  the  sense  of  grief,  and  her  impetuous  temper 
conflicting  with  her  pride,  combine  to  overset  her 
reason ;  yet  she  is  not  mad :  and  how  admirably, 
how  forcibly  she  herself  draws  the  distinction  b©« 
tween  the  frantic  violence  of  uncontrolled  feeling 
and  actual  madness ! — 

Thou  art  not  holy  to  belie  me  so ; 

I  am  not  mad:  this  hair  I  tear  is  mine; 

My  name  is  Constance;  I  was  Geffrey's  wif6( 

Yc/nng  Arthur  is  ra}  "son,  and  he  is  lost : 

I  am  not  mad;  I  would  to  Heaven  I  werel 

For  then,  'tis  like  I  should  forget  myself: 

0,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget  I 

Not  only  has  Constance  words  at  wiU,  and  Eut 


CONSTANCB.  S8S 

u  the  passionate  feelings  rise  in  her  mind  they  are 
poured  forth  with  vivid,  overpowering  eloquence  ; 
but,  like  Juliet,  she  may  be  said  to  speak  in  pio> 
tures.    For  instance  : — 

Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum? 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  its  bounds. 

And  throughout  the  whole  dialogue  there  is  th« 
tame  overflow  of  eloquence,  the  same  splendor  of 
diction,  the  same  luxuriance  of  imagerj' ;  yet  with 
an  added  giandeur,  arising  from  habits  of  com- 
mand, from  the  age,  the  rank,  and  the  matronly 
character  of  Constance.  Thus  Juliet  pours  forth 
her  love  like  a  muse  in  a  rapture  :  Constance  ravea 
in  her  sorrow  like  a  Pythoness  possessed  with  the 
spirit  of  pain.  The  love  of  Juliet  is  deep  and  in- 
finite as  the  boundless  sea :  and  the  grief  of  Con- 
stance is  so  great,  that  nothing  but  the  round  woild 
itself  is  able  to  sustain  it. 

I  will  instmct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud ; 
For  grief  is  proud  and  makes  his  owner  stout. 
To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief 
Let  kings  assemble,  for  my  grief's  so  great, 
That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up.    Here  I  and  Sorrow  sit ; 
Here  is  my  throne, — bid  kings  come  bow  to  it! 

An  image  more  majestic,  more  wonderfully  sub* 
Gme,  was  never  presented  to  the  fancy  ;  yet  alnM)st 
«qual  as  a  flight  of  poetry  is  her  apoatrop'ae  to  tli« 
Vukvens ;— 


184  HISTORICAL  CHARACTEBb. 

Arm,  arm,  ye  heavens,  against  these  perjured  Utt|il^ 
A  widow  calls ! — be  husband  to  me,  heavens ! 

And  ag^un — 

O  that  my  tongue  vere  in  the  thunder's  mouth, 
Then  with  a  passion  would  I  shake  the  world! 

Not  only  do  her  thoughts  start  into  images,  but  ker 
feelings  become  persons :  grief  haunts  her  aa  a 
living  presence : 

Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  chUd; 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts. 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form; 
Then  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 

And  death  is  welcomed  as  a  bridegroom ;  she 
sees  the  visionary  monster  as  Juliet  saw  "  the 
bloody  Tybalt  festering  in  his  shroud,"  and  heapi 
one  ghastly  image  upon  another  with  all  the  wild 
hixuriance  of  a  distempered  fancy  : — 

0  amiable,  lovely  death  1 
Thou  odoriferous  stench !  sound  rottenness ! 
Arise  forth  from  the  couch  of  lasting  night. 
Thou  hate  and  terror  to  prosperity, 
And  1  will  kiss  thy  detestable  bones; 
And  put  my  eye-balls  in  thy  vanity  brows ; 
And  ring  these  fingers  with  thy  household  wormtt 
And  stop  this  gap  of  breath  with  fulsome  duat; 
And  be  a  cairion  monster  like  thyself: 


CONSTANCE.  988 

Come,  grin  on  me,  and  I  will  think  thou  srail'st^ 
And  buss  thee  as  thy  wife!    Misery's  love, 
0  come  to  me ! 

Constance,  who  Is  a  majestic  being,  is  majestic  in 
ber  very  frenzy.  Majesty  is  also  the  characteristio 
of  Ilermione :  but  what  a  difference  between  her 
silent,  lofty,  uncomplaining  despair,  and  the  elo* 
quent  grief  of  Constance,  whose  wild  lamentations, 
which  come  bursting  forth  clothed  in  the  grandest, 
the  most  poetical  imagery,  not  only  melt,  but  abso- 
lutely electrify  us  I 

On  the  whole,  it  may  be  said  that  pride  and  ma- 
ternal affection  form  the  basis  of  the  character  of 
Constance,  as  it  is  exhibited  to  us ;  but  that  these 
passions,  in  an  equal  degree  common  to  many 
human  beings,  assume  their  peculiar  and  individual 
tinge  from  an  extraordinary  development  of  intel- 
lect and  fancy.  It  is  the  energy  of  passion  which 
lends  the  character  Its  concentrated  power,  as  it  ia 
the  prevalence  of  imagination  throughout  which 
dilates  it  into  magnificence. 

Some  of  the  most  splendid  poetry  to  be  met 
with  in  Shakspeare,  may  be  found  in  the  parts  of 
Juliet  and  Constance  ;  the  most  splendid,  perhaps, 
excepting  oidy  the  parts  of  Lear  and  Othello ;  and 
for  the  same  reason, — that  Lear  and  Othello  as 
men,  and  Juliet  and  Constance  as  women,  are  dis- 
tinguished by  the  predominance  of  the  same  facul- 
ties,— passion  and  imagination 

The  sole  deviation  from  history  which  may  be 
«onsidered  as  essentially  interfen  ig  with  the  truth 
U 


IS6  HISTORICAL  CHABACTEBS. 

of  tbe  situation,  is  the  entire  omission  of  tbe  chvt> 
acter  of  Guy  de  Thouars,  so  that  Constance  ii 
incorrectly  represented  as  in  a  state  of  widowhoud, 
at  a  period  when,  in  point  of  fact,  she  was  married. 
It  may  be  observed,  that  her  marriage  took  place 
just  at  the  period  of  the  opening  of  tbe  drama 
that  Guy  de  Thouars  played  no  conspicuous  part 
in  the  afi'airs  of  Bretagne  till  after  the  death  of 
Constance,  and  that  the  mere  presence  of  this  per- 
wnage,  altogether  superfluous  in  the  action,  would 
have  completely  destroyed  the  dramatic  interest  <rf 
the  situation ; — and  what  a  situation  1  One  more 
magnificent  was  never  placed  before  the  mind's 
eye  than  that  of  Constance,  when,  deserted  and 
betrayed,  she  stands  alone  in  her  despair,  amid  her 
false  friends  and  her  ruthless  enemies!*  The 
image  of  the  mother-eagle,  wounded  and  bleeding 
to  death,  yet  stretched  over  her  young  in  an  atti- 
tude of  defiance,  while  all  the  baser  birds  of  prey 
are  clamoring  around  her  eyry,  gives  but  a  faint 
idea  of  the  moral  sublimity  of  this  scene.  Con- 
sidered merely  as  a  poetical  or  dramatic  picture, 
the  grouping  is  wonderfully  fine  ;  on  one  side,  the 
vulture  ambition  of  that  mean-souled  tyrant,  John ; 
on  the  other,  the  selfish,  calculating  policy  of 
Philip :  between  them,  balancing  their  passions  in 
his  hand,  the  cold,  subtle,  heartless  Legate :  the 
fiery,  reckless  Falconbridge;  the  princely  Louis; 
the  still  unconquered  spirit  of  that  wranglin| 
%aeen,  old  £linor ;  the  bridal  loveliness  and  mtA 
•  Kloc  Jt^n,  Act  Ui.  Smm  1. 


qt)EEN    ELISOR.  889 

I8ty  of  Blanche ;  the  boyish  grace  and  innocence 
»f  young  Arthur  ;  and  Constance  in  the  midst  of 
them,  in  all  the  state  of  her  great  grief,  a  grand 
.mpersonation  of  pride  and  passion,  helpless  at 
Dnce  and  desperate, — form  an  assemblage  of  fig- 
ures, each  perfect  in  its  kind,  and,  taken  all  to- 
gether, not  surpassed  for  the  variety,  force,  an<i 
splendor  of  the  dramatic  and  picturesque  effect. 


QUEEN  ELINOR. 

Ehnor  of  Guienne,  and  Blanche  of  Castile,  who 
form  part  of  the  group  around  Constance,  are 
sketches  merely,  but  they  are  strictly  historical 
portraits,  and  full  of  truth  and  spirit. 

At  the  period  when  Shakspeare  has  brought 
these  three  women  on  the  scene  together,  Elinor 
of  Guienne  (the  daughter  of  the  last  Duke  of 
Guienne  and  Aquitaine,  and  like  Constance,  the 
heiress  of  a  sovereign  duchy)  was  near  the  close 
of  her  long,  various,  and  unquiet  life — she  waa 
nearly  seventy  :  and,  as  in  early  youth,  her  violent 
passions  had  overborne  both  principle  and  policy, 
lo  in  her  old  age  we  see  the  same  character,  only 
modified  by  time  ;  her  strong  intellect  and  love  of 
l>ower,  unbridled  by  conscience  or  principle,  sur« 
riving  when    otner   passions  were   extinguished, 


188  HISTORICAL   CnARACTRRS. 

And  rendered  more  dangerous  by  a  degjee  of 
lubtlety  and  self-command  to  which  her  youth  had 
been  a  stranger.  Her  personal  and  avowed  hatied 
for  Constance,  together  with  its  motives,  are  men- 
tioned by  the  old  historians.  Holinshed  expressly 
BS-ys,  that  Queen  Elinor  was  mightily  set  against 
her  grandson  Arthur,  rather  moved  thereto  by  envy 
conceived  against  his  mother,  than  by  any  fault  of 
the  young  prince,  for  that  she  knew  and  dreaded 
the  high  spirit  of  the  Lady  Constance. 

Shakspeare  has  rendered  this  with  equal  spirit 
and  fidelity. 

QCEEN  ELINOK. 

What  now,  my  son !  have  I  not  ever  said, 

How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease, 

TiJ]  she  had  kindled  France  and  all  the  world 

Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son  ? 

This  might  have  been  prevented  and  made  whol* 

With  very  easy  arguments  of  love ; 

Which  now  the  manage  of  two  kingdoms  most 

With  fearful  bloody  issue  arbitrate. 

KINO  JOHN. 

Onr  strong  possession  and  our  right  for  ns! 

QUEEN   ELINOR. 

Your  strong  possession  much  more  than  your  right 
Or  else  it  must  go  wrong  with  you  and  me. 
So  much  my  conscience  whispers  in  your  ear — 
Which  none  but  Heaven,  and  you,  and  I  shall  hear. 

Queen  Elinor  preserved  to  the  end  of  her  liA 
hor  influence  over  her  children,  and  appears  to 
kmve  merited  their  respect     While  intrusted  witfc 


BLANCHE.  389 

Ihe  gavemment,  during  the  absence  of  Itti-hard  1., 
ihe  ruled  with  a  steady  hand,  and  made  herself 
exceedingly  popular ;  and  as  long  as  she  lived  to 
direct  the  counsels  of  her  son  John,  his  affairs 
prospered.  For  that  intemperate  jealousy  which 
converted  her  into  a  domestic  firebrand,  there  was 
at  least  much  cause,  though  little  excuse.  Elinor 
had  hated  and  wronged  the  husband  of  her  youth,* 
and  she  had  afterwards  to  endure  the  negligence 
and  innumerable  infidelities  of  the  husband  whom 
she  passionately  loved :  f — "  and  so  the  whirligig 
of  time  brought  in  his  revenges."  Elinor  died  in 
1203,  a  few  months  after  Constance,  and  before 
the  murder  of  Arthur — a  crime  which,  had  she  lived, 
would  probably  never  have  been  consiunmated ; 
for  the  nature  of  Elinor,  though  violent,  had  no 
tincture  of  the  baseness  and  cruelty  of  her  son. 


BLANCHE. 

Blanche  of  Castile  was  the  daughter  of  Al- 
phonso  IX.  of  Castile,  and  the  grand-daughter  of 

•  Louis  Vn.  of  France,  whom  she  waa  accustomed  to  call,  Ik 
tontcmpt,  the  monk.  EUnor's  adventures  in  Syria,  -whither  bIm 
tccompanied  Louis  on  the  second  Crusade,  would  form  a 
pomance. 

t  Henry  n.  of  England  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  obaem 
%at  the  story  of  Fair  Rosamond,  as  for  as  Elinor  is  cooeeriMA 
•  a  mere  Inventi  >n  of  some  ballad-maker  >f  later  time* 


190  HlgTURICAL   CHARACTERS. 

EHinor.  At  the  time  that  she  is  introduced  inti 
the  drama,  she  was  about  fifteen,  and  her  marriage 
with  Louis  YIIL,  then  Dauphin,  took  place  in  tb« 
abrupt  manner  here  represented.  It  is  not  oftet 
that  political  marriages  have  the  same  happj 
result.  We  are  told  by  the  historians  of  that 
time,  that  from  the  moment  Louis  and  Blanche 
met,  they  were  inspired  by  a  mutual  passion,  and 
that  during  a  union  of  more  than  twenty-six  years 
they  were  never  known  to  differ,  nor  even  spent 
more  than  a  single  day  asunder  * 

In  her  exceeding  beauty  and  blameless  reputa* 
tion  ;  her  love  for  her  husband,  and  strong  domes- 
tic affections ;  her  pride  of  birth  and  rank ;  her 
feminine  gentleness  of  deportment;  her  fiminesfl 
of  temper ;  her  religious  bigotry ;  her  love  of  abso- 
lute power,  and  her  upright  and  conscientious 
administration  of  it,  Blanche  greatly  resembled 
Maria  Theresa  of  Austria.  She  was,  however,  of 
a  more  cold  and  calculating  nature ;  and  in  pro- 
portion as  she  was  less  amiable  as  a  woman,  did 
she  rule  more  happily  for  herself  and  others. 
There  cannot  be  a  greater  contrast  than  between 
the  acute  understanding,  the  steady  temper,  and 
the  cool  intriguing  policy  of  Blanche,  by  which 
■he  succeeded  in  disuniting  and  defeating  the 
powers  arrayed  against  her  and  her  infant  son, 
and  the  rash  confiding  temper  and  susceptible  im< 
Igination  of  Constance,  which  rendered  herself 


liADY   PERCT.  891 

imd  iier  son  easy  victims  to  the  fraud  or  ambition 
of  others.  Blanche,  during  forty  years,  held  in  hei 
bands  the  destinies  of  the  greater  part  of  Europe, 
and  18  one  of  the  most  celebrated  names  recorded 
in  history — but  in  what  does  she  survive  to  us  ex- 
cept in  a  name  ?  Nor  history,  nor  fame,  though 
"  trumpet-tongued,"  could  do  for  her  what  Shak- 
ipeare  and  poetry  have  done  for  Constance.  The 
earthly  reign  of  Blanche  is  over,  her  sceptre 
broken,  and  her  power  departed.  When  will 
the  reign  of  Constance  cease  ?  when  will  her 
power  depart  ?  Not  while  this  world  is  a  world, 
and  there  exists  in  it  human  souls  to  kindle  at  the 
touch  of  genius,  and  human  hearts  to  throb  with 
human  sympathies ! 

«  *  «  •  '     « 

There  is  no  female  character  of  any  interest  in 
the  play  of  Richard  II.  The  Queen  (Isabelle  of 
France)  enacts  the  same  passive  part  in  the  drama 
that  she  does  in  history. 

The  same  remark  applies  to  Henry  IV.  In  thij 
admirable  play  there  is  no  female  character  of  any 
importance ;  but  Lady  Percy,  the  wife  of  Hotspur, 
is  a  very  lively  and  beautiful  sketch:  she  ii 
•prightly,  feminine,  and  fond;  but  without  any 
thing  energetic  or  profound,  in  mind  or  in  feeling. 
fler  gayety  and  spirit  in  the  first  scenes,  are  the 
result  of  youth  and  happiness,  and  nothing  can  be 
more  natural  than  the  utter  dejection  and  broken- 
ness  of  heart  which  follow  her  husband's  death: 
ihe  is  no  heroine  for  war  or  tragedy  ;  she  haa  nc 


192  mSTOBICAL   CHARACTEBB. 

thought  of  reven^ng  her  loss  ;  and  even  ber  grief 
has  something  soft  and  quiet  in  its  pathos.  Ilei 
■peech  to  her  father-in-law,  Northumberland,  in 
which  she  entreats  him  "  not  to  go  to  the  wars, 
knd  at  the  same  time  pronounces  the  most  beauti- 
iol  eulogium  on  her  heroic  husband,  is  a  perfect 
piece  of  feminine  eloquence,  both  in  the  feeling 
and  in  the  expression. 

Almost  every  one  knows  by  heart  Lady  Percjfli 
telebrated  address  to  her  husband,  beginning, 

0,  my  good  lord,  why  are  you  thus  alone? 

Knd  that  of  Portia  to  Brutus,  in  Julius  Caesar, 

You've  ongently,  Bratos, 
StoPn  firom  my  bed. 

The  situation  is  exactly  similar,  the  topics  of 
remonstrance  are  nearly  the  same ;  the  sentiments 
and  the  style  as  opposite  as  are  the  characters  of 
the  two  women.  Lady  Percy  is  evidently  accos* 
tomed  to  win  more  from  her  fiery  lord  by  caresset 
than  by  reason :  he  loves  her  in  his  rough  way, 
•♦  as  Harry  Percy's  wife,"  but  she  has  no  real  infl* 
Bcce  over  him :  he  has  no  confidence  in  her. 

UkDT  PKRCT. 

In  faith, 
I'll  know  your  business,  Harry  that  I  will, 
I  fear  my  brother  Mortimer  doth  stir 
About  this  title,  and  hath  sent  for  yon 
To  line  his  enterprise,  but  if  yon 


S9S 


HOT8VUK. 

So  fer  afoot>  i  shall  be  weary,  love ! 

riie  whole  scene  is  admirable,  but  unnecessary 
here,  because  it  illustrates  no  point  of  character  in 
her.  Lady  Percy  has  no  character,  properly  so 
called ;  whereas,  that  of  Portia  is  very  distinctly 
and  faithfully  drawn  from  the  outline  furnished  by 
Platarch.  Lady  Percy's  fond  upbraidings,  and 
her  half  playful,  half  pouting  entreaties,  scarcely 
gain  her  husband's  attention.  Portia,  with  tiue 
matronly  dignity  and  tenderness,  pleads  her  righ< 
to  share  her  husband's  thoughts,  and  proves  it  too 

I  grant  I  am  a  woman,  but  withal, 
A  woman  that  Lord  Brutus  took  to  wife, 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman,  but  withal, 
A  woman  well  reputed — Cato's  daughter. 
Think  you,  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex 
Being  so  father' d  and  so  husbanded? 
«  «  «  « 

BRUTUS. 

You  are  my  true  and  honorable  wife: 
As  dear  to  me,  as  are  the  ruddy  di-ops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart  1 

Fortia,  as  Shakspeare  has  truly  felt  and  rejire 
Koted  the  character,  Is  but  a  softened  reflection  ol 
that  of  her  husband  Brutus:  in  him  we  see  an 
excess  of  natural  sensibility,  an  almost  wcmanisb 
tenderness  of  heart,  repressed  by  the  tenets  of  hii 
austere  philosophy:  a  stoic  by  profession,  and  in 
»eauty  the  reverse — acting  deeds  against  his  naturt 


P94  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

by  the  strong  force  of  principle  and  will.  In 
Portia  there  is  the  same  profound  and  passionate 
feeling,  and  all  her  sex's  softness  and  timidity,  held 
in  check  by  that  self-discipline,  that  stately  dignity, 
which  she  thought  became  a  woman  "  so  fathered 
and  so  husbanded."  The  fact  of  her  inflicting  ok 
herself  a  voluntary  wound  to  try  her  own  fortitude, 
u  perhaps  the  strongest  proof  of  this  disposition. 
Platarch  relates,  that  on  the  day  on  which  Caesar 
was  assjissinated,  Portia  appeared  overcome  with 
terror,  and  even  swooned  away,  but  did  not  in  her 
emotion  utter  a  word  which  could  affect  the  con- 
ipirators.  Shakspeare  has  rendered  this  circum* 
stance  literally. 

PORTIA. 

I  pr'jrthee,  boy,  run  to  the  senate  house, 
Stay  not  to  answer  me,  but  get  thee  gone. 
Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 

LUCIUS. 

To  know  my  errand,  madam. 

PORTIA. 

I  would  have  had  thee  there  and  here  again, 
Ere  I  can  tell  thee  what  thou  should'st  do  there. 

0  constancy  1  be  strong  upon  my  side : 

Set  a  huge  mountain  'tween  my  heart  and  tonga*  I 

1  have  a  man's  mind,  but  a  woman's  might. 

Ah  me !  how  weak  a  thing 
The  heart  of  woman  is  1    0  1  grow  faint,  &o. 

There  is  another  beautiful  incident  related  Vy 
Flutai'ch,  which  could  not  well  be  dramatized 
VThen  Brutus  and  Portia  parted  for  the  last  tunc 


PORTIA.  89S 

m  the  idland  of  Nisida,  she  restrained  all  expression 
of  grief  that  she  might  not  shake  his  fortitude  ;  but 
afterwards,  in  passing  through  a  chamber  in  which 
there  hung  a  picture  of  Hector  and  Andromache, 
■he  stopped,  gazed  upon  it  for  a  time  with  a  settled 
sorrow,  and  at  length  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears.* 

If  Portia  had  been  a  Christian,  and  lived  in  later 
times,  she  might  have  been  another  Lady  Russel ; 
but  she  made  a  poor  stoic.  No  factitious  or  exter- 
nal control  was  sufficient  to  restrain  such  an  exu- 
berance of  sensibility  and  fancy :  and  those  who 
praise  the  philosophy  of  Portia  and  the  heroism  of 
her  death,  certainly  mistook  the  character  alto- 
gether. It  is  evident,  from  the  manner  of  her 
death,  that  it  was  not  deliberate  self-destruction, 
"  after  the  high  Roman  fashion,"  but  took  place  in 
a  paroxysm  of  madness,  caused  by  ovenvrought 
iind  suppressed  feeling,  grief,  terror,  and  suspense. 
Shakspeare  has  thus  represented  it : — 

BKUTCS. 

0  Cassias !  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs  1 

CASSICS. 

Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use, 
If  yoa  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

*  AVhen  at  Naplea,  I  have  often  stood  upon  the  rock  at  the  «z> 
.reme  pdnt  of  Poeilippo,  and  looked  down  upon  the  little  Island 
•f  Nisida,  and  thought  of  this  scene  till  I  forgot  the  Lasirett4 
irhich  now  deforms  it :  deforms  it.  however,  to  the  fency  only 
lar  the  building  itself,  as  it  rises  from  amid  the  nnes,  the  ^ypreifci 
«•  and  fig-trees  which  embosom  it,  looks  beautiful  at  a  iiiitane* 


196  HISTORICAL  CHAKACTESa. 

BBUTU8. 

K:  man  bears  sorrow  better;  Po{tia'8 


CAS8IC8. 

Ha!— Portia? 

BRCTCB. 

She  is  dead. 

CASSICS. 

How  'scap'd  I  killing  when  I  cross'd  you  to) 
0  insupportable  and  touching  loss — 
Upon  what  sickness? 

BRUTU8> 

Impatient  of  my  absence, 
And  grief  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Had  made  themselves  so  strong — (for  with  her  d««tk 
These  tidings  came) — with  (his  befell  distract, 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallowed  fire. 

80  much  for  woman's  philosophy ! 


MARGARET  OF  ANJOU. 

Malone  has  written  an  essay,  to  prove  from 
external  and  internal  evidence,  that  the  three 
parts  of  King  Henry  VI.  were  not  originally  writ- 
ten by  Shakspeare,  but  altered  by  him  from  two 
pld  plays,*  with  considerable  improvements  and 
vlditions  of  his  own.     Burke,  Porson,  Dr.  Warbup. 

*  "  The  eonVntion  of  the  two  Houses  of  York  and  Lancaater,' 
tn  two  parts,  suppomd  hj  MaloD«  to  hav*  been  written  alios 


MARGARET   OF   AXJOU.  89? 

Ion,  and  Dr.  Farmer,  pronounced  this  piece  of 
rritioism  convincing  and  unanswerable;  but  Dr. 
Johnson  and  Steevens  would  not  be  convinced, 
Knd,  moreover,  have  contrived  to  answer  the  un- 
answerable. "  Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  dis- 
agree ?  "  The  only  arbiter  in  such  a  case  is  one's 
own  individual  taste  and  judgment.  To  me  it  ap- 
pears that  the  three  parts  of  Henry  VI.  have  less 
of  poetry  and  passion,  and  more  of  unnecessary 
verbosity  and  inflated  language,  than  the  rest  of 
Shakspeare's  works ;  that  the  continual  exhibition 
of  treachery,  bloodshed,  and  violence,  is  revolting, 
and  the  want  of  unity  of  action,  and  of  a  pervading 
interest,  oppressive  and  fatiguing;  but  also  that 
there  are  splendid  passages  in  the  Second  and 
Third  Parts,  such  as  Shakspeare  alone  could  have 
written :  and  this  is  not  denied  by  the  most  skep- 
tical. * 

*  I  abstain  from  making  any  remarks  on  the  character  of  Jo»q 
of  Arc,  as  delineated  in  the  First  part  of  Henry  VI.;  first,  be- 
cause I  do  not  in  my  conscience  attribute  it  to  Shakspeare,  and 
secondly,  because  in  representing  her  according  to  the  Tulgar 
English  traditions,  as  half  sorceress,  half  enthusiast,  and  in  th« 
end,  corrupted  by  pleasure  and  ambition,  the  truth  of  history, 
and  the  truth  of  nature,  justice,  and  common  sense,  are  equally 
Tiolated.  Schiller  has  treated  the  character  nobly :  but  in  mak- 
bg  Joan  the  slave  of  passion,  and  the  victim  of  lore,  instead  of 
the  victim  of  patriotism,  has  committed,  I  think,  a  serious  error 
In  judgment  and  feeling;  and  I  cannot  sympathize  viith  Madame 
ie  Stael's  defence  of  him  on  this  particular  point.  Tbers  was  nr. 
iccasion  for  this  deviation  from  the  truth  of  things,  and  from 
Jie  dignity  and  spotless  purity  of  the  character.  Thia  yoang 
^athosiast,  with  her  religious  reveries,  her  slmpncity,  b«rh«rfti 
■m,  h«r  melancholy,  her  eeusibility,  her  fortitude,  her  p«rfeetlj 


198  HISTORICAL   CnARACTERS. 

Among  the  arguments  against  the  authenticity 
of  these  plays,  the  character  of  Margaret  of  Anjoa 
has  not  been  adduced,  and  yet  to  those  who  have 
studied  Shakspeare  in  his  own  spirit,  it  will  appear 
the  most  conclusive  of  all.  When  we  compare  her 
with  his  other  female  characters,  we  are  struck  at 
once  by  the  want  of  family  likeness ;  Shakspeara 
was  not  always  equal,  but  he  had  not  two  mannem, 
as  they  say  of  painters.  I  discern  his  hand  in  par- 
ticular parts,  but  I  cannot  recognize  his  spirit  ic 
the  conception  of  the  whole :  he  may  liave  laid  od 
some  of  the  colors,  but  the  original  design  has  a 
certain  hardness  and  heaviness,  very  unlike  his 
usual  style.  Margaret  of  Anjou,  as  exhibited  in 
these  tragedies,  is  a  dramatic  portrait  of  consider- 
able truth,  and  vigor,  and  consistency — but  she  ia 
not  one  of  Shakspeare's  women.  He  who  knew  so 
well  in  what  true  greatness  of  spirit  consisted — 
who  could  excite  our  respect  and  sympathy  even 
for  a  Lady  Macbeth,  would  never  have  given  us  a 
heroine  without  a  touch  of  heroism  ;  be  would  net 
have  portrayed  a  high-hearted  woman,  struggling 
unsubdued  against  the  strangest  vicissitudes  of  for- 
tune, meeting  reverses  and  disasters,  such  as  would 

feminine  bearing  in  all  her  exploits,  (for  though  she  so  often  l«tf 
the  ran  of  battle  unshrinking,  while  death  was  all  around  her, 
•be  nerer  struck  a  blow,  nor  stained  her  consecrated  sword  with 
birvod, — another  point  in  which  Schiller  has  wronged  her,)  th!l 
heroine  and  martyr,  over  whose  last  moments  we  shed  burning 
tMrs  of  pity  and  indignation,  remains  yet  to  be  treated  as  ■ 
titunatin  character,  and  I  know  but  one  person  capable  of  doin| 
thi*. 


MARGARET   OF   ANJOTT.  89S 

flave  broken  the  most  masculine  spirit,  with  un 
thaken  constancy,  yet  left  her  without  a  singU 
personal  quality  which  would  excite  our  interest  in 
her  bravely-endured  misfortunes;  and  this  too  in 
the  very  face  of  history.  He  would  not  have  given 
us,  in  Ueu  of  the  magnanimous  queen,  the  subtle 
and  accomplished  French  woman,  a  mere  "  Ama* 
zonian  trull,"  with  every  coarser  feature  of  deprav- 
ity and  ferocity;  he  would  have  redeemed  her 
from  unmingled  detestation ;  he  would  have  breathed 
into  her  some  of  his  own  SAveet  spirit — he  would 
have  given  the  woman  a  soul. 

Tlie  old  chronicler  Hall  informs  us,  that  Queen 
Margaret  "  excelled  all  other  as  well  in  beauty  and 
favor,  as  in  wit  and  policy,  and  was  in  stomach  and 
courage  more  like  to  a  man  than  to  a  woman."  He 
adds,  that  after  the  espousals  of  Henry  and  Mar- 
garet, "  the  king's  friends  fell  from  him ;  the  lords 
of  the  realm  fell  in  division  among  themselves ;  the 
Commons  rebelled  against  their  natural  prince; 
fields  were  foughten ;  many  thousands  slain ;  and, 
finally,  the  king  was  deposed,  and  his  son  slain, 
and  his  queen  sent  home  again  with  as  much  misery 
and  sorrow  as  she  was  received  with  pomp  and 
triumph." 

This  passage  seems  to  have  furnishod  the  ground* 
work  of  the  character  as  it  is  developed  in  these 
plays  with  no  great  depth  or  skill.  Margaret  is 
nortrayed  with  all  the  exterio'*  graces  of  her  sex ; 
18  bold  and  artful,  with  spirit  to  dare,  resolution  to 
let,  and  fortitude  to  endure;    but    treacherons. 


100  HISTORICAL  CHABACTBRO 

haujrhty,  dissembling,  vindictive,  and  fierce.  TL« 
oloody  struggle  for  power  in  which  she  was  en- 
gaged, and  the  companionship  of  the  ruthless  iron 
men  around  her,  seem  to  have  left  her  nothing  of 
womanhood  but  the  heart  of  a  mother — that  last 
stronghold  of  our  feminine  nature !  So  far  the 
character  is  consistently  drawn  :  it  has  something 
of  the  power,  but  none  of  the  flowing  ease  of  Shak- 
Bpeare's  manner.  There  are  fine  materials  not 
well  applied ;  there  is  poetry  in  some  of  the  scenes 
and  speeches ;  the  situations  are  often  exceedingly 
poetical ;  but  in  the  character  of  Margaret  herself, 
there  is  not  an  atom  of  poetry.  In  her  artificial 
dignity,  her  plausible  wit,  and  her  endless  volubil- 
ity, she  would  remind  us  of  some  of  the  most  ad- 
mired heroines  of  French  tragedy,  but  for  that 
unlucky  box  on  the  ear  which  she  gives  the 
Duchess  of  Gloster, — a  violation  of  tragic  decorum, 
which  of  course  destroys  all  parallel. 

Having  said  thus  much,  I  shall  point  out  some 
of  the  finest  and  most  characteristic  scenes  in 
which  Margaret  appears.  The  speech  in  which 
she  expresses  her  scorn  of  her  meek  husband,  and 
her  impatience  of  the  power  exercised  by  those 
fierce  overbearing  barons,  York,  Salisbury,  War- 
wick, Buckingham,  is  very  fine,  and  conveys  aa 
faithful  an  idea  of  those  feudal  times  as  of  the 
woman  who  speaks.  The  burst  of  female  spit* 
irith  which  she  concludes,  is  admirable — 

Not  all  these  lords  do  vex  me  half  so  much 
M  that  proud  dame,  the  Lord  Protector's  wUk 


MARGARET   OF   ANJOU.  401 

She  sweeps  't  through  the  court  with  troops  of  ladiM, 

More  like  an  empress  than  Duke  Humphrey's  wife. 

Strangers  in  court  do  take  her  for  the  queen: 

She  bears  a  duke's  revenues  on  her  back, 

And  in  her  heart  she  scorns  our  poverty. 

Shall  I  not  live  to  be  avenged  on  her? 

Contemptuous  base-bom  callet  as  she  is ! 

She  vaunted  'mongst  her  minions  t'other  day, 

■^he  very  train  of  her  worst  wearing  gown 

'Was  better  worth  than  all  my  father's  lands, 

Till  Suffolk  gave  two  dukedoms  for  his  daughter. 

Her  intriguing  spirit,  the  facility  with  which  she 
enters  into  the  murderous  confederacy  against  the 
good  Duke  Humphrey,  the  artful  plausibility  with 
which  she  endeavours  to  turn  suspicion  from  her- 
self— confounding  her  gentle  consort  by  mere  dint 
of  words — are  exceedingly  characteristic,  but  not 
the  less  revolting. 

Her  criminal  love  for  Suffolk  (which  is  a  dra- 
matic incident,  not  an  historic  fact)  gives  rise  to 
the  beautiful  parting  scene  in  the  third  act;  a 
Bcene  which  it  is  impossible  to  read  without  a  thrill 
of  emotion,  hurried  away  by  that  power  and  pathos 
which  forces  us  to  sympathize  with  the  eloquence 
rf  grief,  yet  excites  not  a  momentary  interest  either 
for  Margaret  or  her  lover.  The  ungoverned  fury 
of  Margaret  in  the  first  instance,  the  manner  in 
which  she  calls  on  Suffolk  to  curse  his  enemies, 
and  then  shrinks  back  overcome  by  the  violence  of 
the  spirit  she  had  herself  evoked,  and  terrified  by 
the  vehemence  of  his  Imprecations ;  the  transition 
«i  hnr  mind  from  the  extremity  of  retge  to  tean 
2» 


102  UISTOBICAL  CHARACTEBS. 

Knd  melting  fondness,  have  been  pronounced,  sad 
justly,  to  be  in  Shakspeare's  own  manner. 

Go,  speak  not  to  me— even  now  begone. 
0  go  not  yet !  Even  thus  two  friends  condemn'd 
Embrace,  and  kiss,  and  take  ten  thousand  leaves, 
Leather  a  hundred  times  to  part  than  die: 
Yet  now  farewell;  and  farewell  life  with  thee  I 

which  is  followed  by  that  beautiful  and  inteiuw 
bant  of  passion  from  Suffolk — 

'Tis  not  the  hand  I  care  for,  wert  thou  henoe; 
A  wilderness  is  populous  enough, 
So  Suffolk  had  thy  heavenly  company: 
For  where  thou  art,  there  is  the  world  itself, 
Witn  every  several  pleasure  in  the  world; 
And  where  thou  art  not,  desolation  1 

In  the  third  part  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  Margaret, 
engaged  in  the  terrible  struggle  for  her  husband's 
throne,  appears  to  rather  more  advantage.  The 
indignation  against  Henry,  who  had  pitifully  yielded 
his  son's  birthright  for  the  privilege  of  reigning 
nnmolested  during  his  own  life,  is  worthy  of  her, 
and  gives  rise  to  a  beautiful  speech.  We  are  here 
inclined  to  sympathize  with  her;  bnt  soon  after 
follows  the  murder  of  the  Duke  of  York ;  and  the 
base  revengeful  spirit  and  atrocious  cruelty  with 
which  she  insults  over  him,  unarmed  and  a  prisoner, 
— ihe  bilterness  of  her  mockery,  and  the  un« 
iromanly  malignity  with  which  she  presents  bin 
Irith  the  napkin   stained  with  the  blood  of  hil 


QUEEN  MAKGARET.  401 

foungest  son,  and  "  bids  the  father  wipe  his  eyei 
withal,"  turn  all  our  sympathy  into  aversion  and 
horror.  York  replies  in  the  celebrated  speecb« 
tteginning — 

She-wolf  of  France,  and  worse  than  wolves  of  FranM, 
Whose  tongue  more  poisons  than  the  adder's  tooth— 

ind  taunts  her  with  the  poverty  of  her  father,  tht 
most  irritating  topic  he  could  have  chosen. 

Hath  that  poor  monarch  taught  thee  to  insult? 
It  needs  not,  nor  it  boots  thee  not,  proud  queen, 
Unless  the  adage  must  be  verified. 
That  beggars,  mounted,  ride  their  horse  to  death. 
Tis  beauty,  that  doth  oft  make  women  proud ; 
But,  God  he  knows,  thy  share  thereof  is  small. 
'Tis  virtue  that  doth  make  them  most  admired; 
The  contrary  doth  make  thee  wondered  at. 
'Tis  government  that  makes  them  seem  divine, 
The  want  thereof  makes  thee  abominable. 

*  *  *  m  m 

O  tiger's  heart,  wrapped  in  a  woman's  hide ! 
How  could' st  thou  drain  the  life-blood  of  the  child 
To  bid  the  father  wipe  his  face  withal. 
And  yet  be  seen  to  bear  a  woman's  face? 
Women  are  soft,  mUd,  pitiful  and  flexible, 
Thou  stem,  obdurate,  flinty,  rough,  remorseless] 

By  such  a  woman  as  Margaret  is  here  depicted 
Rich  a  speech  could  be  answered  only  in  one  way^ 
with  her  dagger's  point — and  thus  she  answers  it. 

It  is  some  comfort  to  reflect  that  this  trait  of 
%rocity  is  not  historical :  the  body  of  the   Dukfl 


f04  HISTORICAL    CHARACTERS. 

of  Kcrk  was  found,  after  the  battle,  among  th4 
heaps  of  slain,  and  his  head  struck  off:  but  even 
this  was  not  done  by  the  command  of  Margaret 

In  another  passage,  the  truth  and  consistency  of 
the  character  of  Margaret  are  sacrificed  to  the  march 
of  the  dramatic  action,  with  a  very  ill  effect-  When 
her  fortunes  were  at  the  very  lowest  ebb,  and  she 
had  sought  refuge  in  the  court  of  the  French  king, 
Warwick,  her  most  formidable  enemy,  upon  some 
disgust  he  had  taken  against  Edward  the  Fourth, 
offered  to  espouse  her  cause ;  and  proposed  a 
match  between  the  prince  her  son  and  his  daughter 
Anne  of  Warwick — the  "gentle  Lady  Anne," 
who  figures  in  Richard  the  Third.  In  the  play, 
Margaret  embraces  the  offer  without  a  moment's 
hesitation  :  *  we  are  disgusted  by  her  versatile 
policy,  and  a  meanness  of  spirit  in  no  way  allied 
to  the  magnanimous  forgiveness  of  her  terrible  ad- 
versary. The  Margaret  of  history  sternly  resisted 
this  degrading  expedient.  She  could  not,  she  said, 
pardon  from  her  heart  the  man  who  had  been  the 
primary  cause  of  all  her  misfortunes.  She  mistrusted 
Warwick,  despised  him  for  the  motives  of  his  revolt 
from  Edward,  and  considered  that  to  match  her  son 
into  the  family  of  her  enemy  from  mere  policy 
•TM  a  species  of  degradation.    It  took  Louia  tint 

*  See  Henry  TI.  Part  m.  Act.  Ui.  ao.  8— 

q,VtXS  XABOAKR. 

Warwick,  these  words  hare  turned  my  hat*  to  lowt— 

And  I  forgire  and  quite  forget  old  &ulta, 

And  Joy  tliat  thou  becom'at  King  Henry'i  frtond. 


QUEEN  MABOARET.  405 

Eleventh,  with  all  his  art  and  eloquence,  fifleen 
days  to  wring  a  reluctant  consent,  accompanied  with 
tears,  from  this  high-hearted  woman. 

The  speech  of  Margaret  to  her  council  of  gener- 
tia  before  the  battle  of  Tewksbury,  (Act  v.  scene 
B,)  is  as  remarkable  a  specimen  of  false  rhetoric, 
as  her  address  to  the  soldiers,  on  the  eve  of  the 
fight,  is  of  true  and  passionate  eloquence. 

She  witnesses  the  final  defeat  of  her  army,  the 
massacre  of  her  adherents,  and  the  murder  of  'net 
Bon ;  and  though  the  savage  Richard  would  willingly 
have  put  an  end  to  her  misery,  and  exclaims  verv 
pertinently — 

Why  should  she  live  to  fill  the  world  with  words? 

•be  is  dragged  forth  unharmed,  a  woful  spectacle 
of  extremes!  wretchedness,  to  which  death  would 
have  been  an  undeserved  relief.  If  we  compare 
the  clamorous  and  loud  exclaims  of  Margaret  after 
the  slaughter  of  her  son,  to  the  ravings  of  Con- 
stance, we  shall  perceive  where  Shakspeare's 
genius  did  not  preside,  and  where  it  did.  Margaret, 
in  bold  defiance  of  history,  but  with  fine  dramatic 
effect,  is  introduced  again  in  the  gorgeous  and 
polluted  court  of  Edward  the  Fourth,  There  she 
stalks  around  the  seat  of  her  former  greatness,  like 
a  terrible  phantom  of  departed  majesty,  uncrowned, 
unsceptered,  desolate,  powerless — or  like  a  vampire 
Uiirsllng  for  blood — or  like  a  grim  prophetess  of 
evil,  imprecating  that  ruin  on  the  head  of  her 
inemies,  which  she  lived  to  <iee  re<ilized.      Th« 


'Ot  HISTORICAL    CHARACTERS. 

•cenu  following  the  murder  of  the  princes  in  th* 
Tower,  in  which  Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  Ducheei 
of  York  sit  down  on  the  ground  bewailing  their 
desolation,  and  Margaret  suddenly  appears  from 
behind  them,  like  the  very  personification  of  woe, 
and  seats  herself  beside  them  revelling  in  theu 
despair,  is,  in  the  general  conception  and  effect, 
grand  and  appalling. 

THE  DUCIIESS. 

0,  Hany'8  wife,  triumph  not  in  my  woes; 
God  witness  with  me,  I  have  wept  for  thine ! 

QUEEN   MARGARET. 

Bear  with  me,  I  am  hungry  for  revenge, 

And  now  I  cloy  me  with  beholding  it. 

Thy  Edward  he  is  dead,  that  kill'd  my  Edward; 

Thy  other  Edward  dead,  to  quit  my  Edward: 

Young  York  he  is  but  boot,  because  both  they 

Match  not  the  high  perfection  of  my  loss. 

Thy  Clarence  he  is  dead,  that  stabb'd  my  Edward, 

And  the  beholders  of  this  tragic  play. 

The  adulterate  Hastings,  Rivers,  Vanghan,  Grey, 

Untimely  sihothor'd  in  their  dusky  graves. 

Bichard  yet  lives,  hell's  black  intelligencer, 

Only  reserv'd  their  factor,  to  buy  souls 

And  send  them  thither.    Rut  at  hand,  at  hand. 

Ensues  his  piteous  and  unpitied  end; 

Earth  gapes,  hell  bums,  fiends  roar  for  him;  saints  fnj 

To  have  him  suddenly  convey'd  from  hence. 

Cancel  his  bocd  of  life,  dear  God.  I  pray, 

That  I  may  live  to  say.  The  dog  is  dead.  * 

•Horac«  iVilpole  observes,  that  "it  is  eyldent  fW>m  th«  e*»» 
tact  of  Shakapeare,  that  the  bouae  of  Tudor  reCuioad  all  UmM 


XATHERLNE  OF  ARRAGON.       407 

She   should  have  stopped  here;  but  the  effect 
thus  powerfully  excited  is  marred  and  weakened 
by   so    much   superfluous    rhetoric,  that  we    are 
tempted  to  exclaim  with  the  old  Duchess  of  York- 
Why  should  calamity  be  full  of  words? 


QUEEN  KATHERINE  OF  ARRAGON. 

To  have  a  just  idea  of  the  accuracy  and  beauty 
of  this  historical  portrait,  we  ought  to  bring 
immediately  before  us  those  circumstances  of 
Katherine's  life  and  times,  and  those  parts  of  her 
tharacter,  which  belong  to  a  period  previous  to  the 
opening  of  the  play.  We  shall  then  be  better  able 
to  appreciate  the  skill  with  which  Shakspeare  has 
applied  the  materials  before  him. 

Katherine  of  Arragon,  the  fourth  and  youngest 
daughter  of  Ferdinand,  King  of  Arragon,  and 
Isabella  of  Castile,  was  born  at  Alcala,  whither  her 
mother  had  retired  to  winter  after  one  of  the  most 
terrible  campaigns  of  the  Moorish  war — that  of 
1485. 

Katherine  had  derived  from  nature  no  dazzling 

Lancasterian  prejudices  even  in  the  reiga  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
In  his  play  of  Richard  the  Third,  he  seems  to  deduce  the  woel 
if  the  house  of  York  from  the  jurses  which  Queen  Margaret  ha4 
•ented  against  them ;  and  he  could  not  give  that  weight  to  hm 
s,  without  supposing  a  right  in  her  to  uttei  them." 


108  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

qualities  of  mind,  and  no  striking  advantages  ol 
person.  She  inherited  a  tincture  of  Queen  Isabella' 
haughtiness  and  obstinacy  of  temper,  but  neither 
her  beauty  nor  her  splendid  talents.  Her  education 
under  the  direction  of  that  extraordinary  mother, 
had  implanted  in  her  mind  the  most  austere  prin- 
ciples of  virtue,  the  highest  ideas  of  female  decorum, 
the  most  narrow  and  bigoted  attachment  to  the 
forms  of  religion,  and  that  excessive  pride  of  birth 
and  rank,  which  distinguished  so  particularly  her 
family  and  her  nation.  In  other  respects,  her  un- 
derstanding was  strong,  and  her  judgment  clear. 
The  natural  turn  of  her  mind  was  simple,  serious, 
and  domestic,  and  all  the  impulses  of  her  heart 
kindly  and  benevolent.  Such  was  Katherine  ;  such, 
at  least,  she  appears  on  a  reference  to  the  chron- 
icles of  her  times,  and  particularly  from  her  own 
letters,  and  the  papers  written  or  dictated  by  her- 
self which  relate  to  her  divorce  ;  all  of  which  are 
distinguished  by  the  same  artless  simplicity  of  style, 
the  same  quiet  good  sense,  the  same  resolute,  yet 
gentle  spirit  and  fervent  piety. 

When  five  years  old,  Katherine  was  solemnly 
affianced  to  Arthur,  Prince  of  Wales,  the  eldest  son 
of  Henry  VII.;  and  in  the  year  1501,  she  landed 
in  England,  after  narrowly  escaping  shipwreck  on 
the  southern  coast,  from  which  every  adverse  wind 
conspired  to  drive  her.  She  was  received  'i  Londor 
with  great  honor,  and  immediately  on  her  arriv* 
inited  to  the  young  prince.  He  was  then  dfteea 
ind  Katherine  in  her  seventeenth  year 


KATUERINE  OF  ABRAGOK.       409 

Arthur,  aa  it  is  well  known,  survived  his  marriage 
inly  five  mjnths;  and  the  reluctance  of  Henry 
VTI.  to  refund  the  splendid  dowry  of  tlie  Infanta, 
and  forego  the  advantages  of  an  alliance  with  the 
most  powerful  prince  of  Europe,  suggested  the  idea 
of  uniting  Katherine  to  his  second  son  Henry; 
after  some  hesitation,  a  dispensation  was  procured 
from  the  Pope,  and  she  was  betrothed  to  Henry  in 
her  eighteenth  year.  The  prince,  who  was  then  only 
twelve  years  old,  resisted  as  far  as  he  was  able  to 
do  so,  and  appears  to  have  really  felt  a  degree  of 
horror  at  the  idea  of  marrying  his  brother's  widow. 
Nor  was  the  mind  of  King  Henry  at  rest ;  as  hia 
health  declined,  his  conscience  reproached  him  with 
the  equivocal  nature  of  the  union  into  which  ha 
had  forced  his  son  ;  and  the  vile  motives  of  avarice 
and  expediency  which  had  governed  him  on  this 
occasion.  A  short  time  previous  to  his  death,  he 
dissolved  the  engagement,  and  even  caused  Henry 
to  sign  a  paper  in  which  he  solemnly  renounced 
all  idea  of  a  future  union  with  the  Infanta.  It  ia 
observable,  that  Henry  signed  this  paper  with  re- 
luctance, and  that  Katherine,  instead  of  being  sent 
back  to  her  own  country,  still  remained  in  England. 

It  appears  that  Henry,  who  was  now  about  sev- 
enteen, had  become  interested  for  Kathenne,  who 
was  gentle  and  amiable.  The  difference  of  years 
was  rather  a  circumstance  in  her  favor ;  for  Henry 
iras  just  at  that  age,  when  a  youth  is  most  likely  to 
W  captivated  by  a  woman  older  than  himself:  and 
M  sooner  wa?  he  required  to  "enounce  her,  tha« 


10  HISTORICAL   CHARA0TBB8. 

the  Intel  est  she  had  gradually  gained  in  his  affeo> 
lions,  became,  by  opposition,  a  strong  passion 
Immediately  after  hi^*  father's  death,  he  declared 
his  resolution  to  take  for  his  wife  the  Lady  Katha- 
rine of  Spain,  and  none  other;  and  when  the 
matter  was  discussed  in  council,  it  was  urged  that, 
besides  the  many  advantages  of  the  match  in  a 
political  point  of  view,  she  had  given  so  "  much 
proof  of  virtue,  and  sweetness  of  condition,  as  they 
knew  not  where  to  parallel  her."  About  six  weeks 
after  his  accession,  June  3,  1509,  the  marriage  was 
celebrated  with  truly  royal  splendor,  Henry  being 
then  eighteen,  and  Katherine  in  her  twenty-fourth 
year. 

It  has  been  said  with  truth,  that  if  Henry  had 
iied  while  Katherine  was  yet  his  wife,  and  Wolsey 
bis  minister,  he  would  have  left  behind  him  the 
diaracter  of  a  magnificent,  popular,  and  accom- 
plished prince,  instead  of  that  of  the  most  hateful 
ruffian  and  tyrant  who  ever  swayed  these  realms. 
Notwithstanding  his  occasional  infidelities,  and  hia 
impatience  at  her  midnight  vigils,  her  long  prayers, 
and  her  religious  austerities,  Katherine  and  Henry 
lived  in  harmony  together.  He  was  fond  of  openly 
displaying  his  respect  and  love  for  her ;  and  she 
exercised  a  strong  and  salutary  influence  over  his 
turbulent  and  despotic  spirit.  When  Henry  set 
out  on  his  expedition  to  France,  in  1513,  he  left 
Katherine  regent  of  the  kingdom  during  his  absence, 
irith  full  powers  to  carry  on  the  war  against  the 
ficotfe  ;  and  the  Earl  of  Surrey  at  the  bead  of  the 


KATHEKINE    OF   AKttAOOH.  4H 

irmy,  as  Ler  lieutenant-general.  It  Is  curious  to 
find  Katlierine — the  pacific,  domestic,  and  unpre- 
tending Katlierine — describing  herself  as  having 
'  her  heart  set  to  war,"  and  "  horrible  busy  "  with 
making  "  standards,  banners,  badges,  scarfs,  and 
the  like."  *  Nor  was  this  mere  silken  preparation 
—mere  dalliance  with  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  war;  for  within  a  few  weeks  afterwards,  her 
general  defeated  the  Scots  in  the  famous  battle  of 
Floddeufield,  where  James  IV.  and  most  of  his 
nobility  were  slain,  f 

Katheriue's  letter  to  Henry,  announcing  thia 
event,  so  strikingly  displays  the  piety  and  tendei- 
ness,  the  quiet  simplicity,  and  real  magnanimity 
of  her  character,  that  there  cannot  be  a  more  apt 
ind  beautiful  illustration  of  the  exquisite  truth  and 
keeping  of  Shakspeare's  portrait. 

Sir, 
My  Lord  Howard  hath  sent  me  a  letter,  open  to 
your  Grace,  within  one  of  mine,  by  the  which  ye 
shall  see  at  length  the  great  victory  that  our  Lord 
bath  sent  your  subjects  in  your  absence  :  and  for 
this  cause,  it  is  no  need  herein  to  trouble  your 
Grace  with  long  writing  ;  but  to  my  thinking  thia 
battle  hath  been  to  your  Grace,  and  all  your  realm, 
the  greatest  honor  that  could  be,  and  more  than  ye 
ihould  win  all  the  crown  of  France,  thanked  be 
Sod  for  it !     And  I  am  sure  your  Grace  forgettetb 

•  See  her  letters  in  EUis'a  Collection. 

t  Under  similar  circumstances,  one  of  Katherine's  predncesscn, 
nilllpp&  of  Hainault,  Iiad  gaJned  in  her  husband  s  absence  tbl 
(Attle  of  Xeville  Cross.  In  which  David  Bruce  was  taken  orisoiMr 


US  HISTORICAL  CHARACTERS. 

not  to  do  this,  which  shall  be  cause  to  send  yon 
manv  more  such  great  victories,  as  I  trust  he  shall 
ao.  My  husband,  for  haste,  with  Rougecross,  I 
could  not  send  your  Grace  the  pieco  of  the  king 
of  Scots'  coat,  which  John  Glyn  now  bringeth. 
In  this  your  Grace  shall  see  how  I  can  keep  nay 
promise,  sending  you  for  your  banners  a  king! 
coat.  I  thought  to  send  himself  unto  you,  but  our 
Englishmen's  hearts  would  not  suffer  it.  It  should 
have  been  better  for  him  to  have  been  in  peace 
than  have  this  reward,  but  all  that  (iod  sendeth  is 
for  the  best.  My  Lord  of  Surrey,  my  Henry,  would 
fain  know  your  pleasure  in  the  burying  of  the  king 
of  Scots'  body,  for  he  hath  written  to  me  so.  With 
the  next  messenger,  your  Grace's  pleasure  may  b6 
herein  known.  And  with  this  I  make  an  end,  pray- 
ing God  to  send  you  home  shortly ;  for  without 
this,  no  joy  here  can  be  accomplished — and  for  the 
same  I  pray.  And  now  go  to  our  Lady  at  Wal- 
syngham,  that  I  promised  so  long  ago  to  see. 

At  Wobum,  the  16th  day  of  September,  (1513.) 
I  send  your  Grace  herein  a  bill,  found  in  a  Scot* 
dsbman's  purse,  of  such  things  as  the  French  king 
lent  to  the  said  king  of  Scots,  to  make  war  against 
jrou.  beseeching  you  to  send  Mathew  hither  as  sooc 
IS  this  messenger  comcth  with  tidings  of  yoiu 
Urace. 

Your  humble  wife  and  true  servant, 
Katiiekixe.* 

*  Bill's  Collection.  We  mast  keep  in  mind  that  Ratherin* 
MS  a  foreigner,  and  till  after  she  was  seventeen,  never  ipoka  « 
Irrote  «  word  of  EdkUsIx. 


KATHEKINE  OP  ARKAGON.        413 

The  legality  of  the  king's  marriage  with  Kathe* 
rine  remained  undisputed  till  1527.  Tn  the  course 
of  that  year,  Anna  Bullen  first  appeared  at  court, 
»nd  was  appointed  maid  of  honor  to  the  queen ; 
and  then,  and  not  till  then,  did  Henry's  union  with 
his  brother's  wife  "  creep  too  near  his  conscience." 
In  the  following  year,  he  sent  special  messengen 
to  Rome,  with  secret  instructions :  they  were  re- 
quired to  discover  (among  other  "  hard  questions  ") 
whether,  if  the  queen  entered  a  religious  life,  the 
king  might  have  the  Pope's  dispensation  to  marry 
again ;  and  whether  if  the  king  (for  the  better 
inducing  the  queen  thereto)  would  enter  himself 
into  a  religious  life,  the  Pope  would  dispense  with 
the  king's  vow,  and  leave  her  there  ? 

Poor  Katherine !  we  are  not  surprised  to  r'iad 
fcat  when  she  understood  what  was  intendea 
against  her,  "  she  labored  with  all  those  passions 
which  jealousy  of  the  king's  affection,  sense  of  her 
own  honor,  and  the  legitimation  of  her  daughter, 
could  produce,  laying  in  conclusion  the  whole  fault 
on  the  Cardinal."  It  is  elsewhere  said,  that  Wol- 
eey  bore  the  queen  ill-will,  in  consequence  of  her 
reflecting  with  some  severity  on  his  haughty  tem-; 
per,  and  very  unclerical  life. 

The  proceedings  were  pending  for  nearly  six 
years,  and  one  of  the  causes  of  this  long  delay,  in 
gpite  of  Henry's  impatient  and  despotic  character, 
is  worth  noting.  The  old  Chronicle  tells  us,  that 
Aough  the  men  generally,  and  more  particularly 
she  priests  and  the  nonles.  sided  with  Henry  in  thii 


114  HISTORICAL   CHABACTLHb. 

matter,  yet  all  the  ladies  of  England  were  agahul 
It.  They  justly  felt  that  the  honor  and  welfare  of 
no  woman  was  secure  if,  after  twenty  years  ot 
anion,  she  might  be  thus  deprived  of  all  her  right! 
Rs  a  wife ;  the  clamor  became  so  loud  and  general, 
that  the  king  was  obliged  to  yield  to  it  for  a  time, 
to  stop  the  proceedings,  and  to  banish  Anna  Bullea 
from  the  court. 

Cardinal  Campeggio,  called  by  Shakspeare  Cam- 
peius,  arrived  In  England  in  October,  1528.  He 
at  first  endeavored  to  persuade  Katherine  to  avoid 
the  disgrace  and  danger  of  contesting  her  marriage, 
by  entering  a  religious  house  ;  but  she  rejected  his 
advice  with  strong  expressions  of  disdain.  "I 
am,"  said  she,  "  the  king's  true  wife,  and  to  him 
married  ;  and  if  all  doctors  were  dead,  or  law  or 
learning  far  out  of  men's  minds  at  the  time  of  ouJ 
marriage,  yet  1  cannot  think  that  the  court  of 
Rome,  and  the  whole  church  of  England,  would 
have  consented  to  a  thing  unlawful  and  detestable 
as  you  call  it  Still  I  say  I  am  his  wife,  and  for 
him  will  I  pray." 

About  two  years  afterwards,  Wolsey  died,  (in 
November,  1530;) — the  king  and  queen  met  for 
the  last  time  on  the  14th  of  July,  1531.  UntU 
that  period,  some  outward  show  of  respect  and 
kindness  had  been  maintained  between  them  ;  but 
the  king  then  ordered  her  to  repair  to  a  private 
residence,  ttad  no  longer  to  consider  herself  as  hia 
kwful  wife.  "  To  which  the  virtuous  and  mourn* 
ag  queen  replied  no  more  than  this,  that  to  wlia^ 


KATHERINE   OF   ARRAGOIT.  418 

ercr  place  she  removed,  nothing  could  remove  hef 
from  being  the  king's  wife.  And  so  they  bid  each 
other  farewell  and  from  this  time  the  king  nevet 
saw  her  more."*  He  married  Anna  Bullen  in 
1582,  while  the  decision  relating  to  his  former 
marriage  was  still  pending.  The  sentence  of 
divorce  to  which  Katherine  never  would  submit, 
ivas  finally  pronounced  by  Cranmer  in  1533 ;  and 
the  unhappy  queen,  whose  health  had  been  gi-ad- 
oally  declining  through  these  troubles  of  heart, 
died  January  29,  1536,  in  the  fiftieth  year  of  her 
fcge. 

Tlius  the  action  of  the  play  of  Henry  VliL 
includes  events  which  occurred  from  the  impeach- 
ment of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  in  1521,  to  the 
death  of  Katherine  in  1536.  In  making  the  deatk 
of  Katherine  precede  the  birth  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
Shakspeare  has  committed  an  anachronism,  not 
only  pardonable,  but  necessary.  We  must  remem- 
ber that  the  construction  of  the  play  required  a 
happy  termination ;  and  that  the  birth  of  Eliza- 
beth, before  or  after  the  death  of  Katherine,  in- 
volved the  question  of  her  legitimacy.  By  this 
slight  deviation  from  the  real  course  of  events, 
Shakspeare  has  not  perverted  historic  facts,  but 
merely  sacrificed  them  to  a  higher  principle ;  and 
in  doing  so  has  not  only  preserved  dramatic  pro- 
priety, and  heightened  the  poetical  interest,  bnt 
bas  given  a  strong  proof  both  of  his  delicacy  and 
W  judgment. 

•BftU'iChionlote 


lis  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

If  we  also  call  to  mind  that  In  this  play  Rath 
erine  is  properly  the  heroine,  and  exhibited  from 
first  to  last  as  the  very  "  queen  of  earthly  queens ;  " 
that  the  whole  interest  is  thrown  round  her  and 
Wolsey — the  one  the  injured  rival,  the  other  the 
enemy  of  Anna  Bullen — and  that  it  was  written 
in  the  reign  and  for  the  court  of  Elizabeth,  we 
ghall  yet  farther  appreciate  the  moral  greatness  of 
the  poet's  mind,  which  disdained  to  sacrifice  justice 
and  the  truth  of  nature  to  any  time-serving  expe- 
diency. 

Schlegel  observes  somewhere,  that  in  the  literal 
accuracy  and  apparent  artlessness  with  which 
Shakspeare  has  adapted  some  of  the  events  and 
characters  of  history  to  his  dramatic  purposes,  he 
has  shown  equally  his  genius  and  his  wisdom. 
This,  like  most  of  Schlegel's  remarks,  is  profound 
and  true ;  and  in  this  respect  Katherine  of  Arra- 
gon  may  rank  as  the  triumph  of  Shakspeare's 
genius  and  his  wisdom.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
whole  range  of  poetical  fiction  in  any  respect  re- 
sembling or  approaciing  her;  there  is  nothing 
comparable,  I  suppose,  but  Katherine's  own  por- 
trait by  Holbein,  which,  equally  true  to  the  life, 
is  yet  as  far  inferior  as  Katherine's  person  was  in- 
ferior to  her  mind.  Not  only  has  Shakspeare 
given  us  here  a  delineation  as  faithful  as  it  is  beau- 
tifol,  of  a  peculiar  modification  of  character ;  but  he 
has  bequeathed  us  a  precious  moral  lesson  in  this 
proof  that  virtue  alone, — (by  which  I  mean  here  the 
ftnion  of  truth  or  coDBOience  with  benevolent  affeo 


KATHRKINB   OF   ARRAO0^r.  417 

lion — ^the  one  the  highest  law,  the  other  the  purest 
impulse  of  the  soul,) — that  such  virtue  is  a  suffi- 
cient source  of  the  deepest  pathos  and  power  with 
out  any  mixture  of  foi-eign  or  external  ornament : 
for  who  but  Shakspeare  would  have  brought  before 
U3  a  queen  and  a  heroine  of  tragedy,  stripped  her 
of  all  pomp  of  place  and  circumstance,  dispensed 
with  all  the  usual  sources  of  poetical  interest,  aa 
youth,  beauty,  grace,  fancy,  commanding  intellect ; 
and  without  any  appeal  to  our  imagination,  with- 
out any  violation  of  historical  truth,  or  any  sacri- 
fices of  the  other  dramatic  personages  for  the  sake 
of  effect,  could  depend  on  the  moral  principle 
alone,  to  touch  the  very  springs  of  feeling  in  our 
bosoms,  and  melt  and  elevate  our  hearts  through 
the  purest  and  holiest  impulses  of  our  nature  ! 

The  character,  when  analyzed,  is,  in  the  first 
place,  distinguished  by  truth.  I  do  not  only  mean 
its  truth  to  nature,  or  its  relative  truth  arising  from 
its  historic  fidelity  and  dramatic  consistency,  but 
tnith  as  a  quality  of  the  soul ;  this  is  the  basis  of 
the  character.  We  often  hear  it  remarked  that 
those  who  are  themselves  perfectly  true  and  art- 
less, are  in  this  world  the  more  easily  and  fre- 
quently deceived — a  common-place  fallacy :  for  we 
shall  ever  find  that  truth  is  as  undeceived  as  it  is 
andeceiving,  and  that  those  who  are  true  to  them- 
selves and  others,  may  now  and  then  be  mistaken, 
or  in  particular  instances  duped  by  the  intervention 
of  some  other  affection  or  (juality  of  the  mind ;  but 
4ey  are  generally  free  from  illusion,  and  thev  »»« 
27 


Cl8  HISTORICAL  COARACTEKS. 

leldoni  imposed  upon  in  the  long  run  by  tl>(.  show* 
of  things  and  superfices  of  characters.  It  is  by  tbu 
integrity  of  heart  and  clearness  of  understanding, 
this  light  of  truth  within  her  own  soul,  and  not 
through  any  acutenesa  of  intellect,  that  Katherine 
detects  and  exposes  the  real  character  of  Wolsejr, 
though  unable  either  to  unravel  his  designs,  or  C©> 
foat  them. 

My  lord,  my  lord, 

I  am  a  simple  woman,  much  too  weak 

T'  oppose  yoxir  cunning. 

She  rather  intuitively  feels  than  knows  hit 
duplicity,  and  in  the  dignity  of  her  simplicity  she 
towers  above  his  arrogance  as  much  as  she  scoma 
his  crooked  policy.  With  this  essential  truth  are 
combined  many  other  qualities,  natural  or  acquired, 
all  made  out  with  the  same  uncompromising  breadth 
of  execution  and  fidelity  of  pencil,  united  with  the 
utmost  delicacy  of  feeling.  For  instance,  the  ap- 
parent contradiction  arising  from  the  contrast  be^ 
tween  Katherine's  natural  disposition  and  the 
situation  in  which  she  is  placed ;  her  lofly  Castilian 
pride  and  her  extreme  simplicity  of  language  and 
deportment;  the  inflexible  resolution  with  which 
she  asserts  her  right,  and  her  soft  resignation  to 
unkindness  and  wi-ong;  her  warmth  of  temper 
breaking  through  the  meekness  of  a  spirit  subdued 
by  a  deep  sense  of  religion  ;  and  a  degree  of 
austerity  tinging  her  real  benevolence ; — all  thest 
qualities,  opposed  yet  harmonizing,  has  Shakspear* 
plar  3d  before  us  in  a  few  admirable  scenes. 


CATHERINE  OP  AKRAGON.        411 

Ratheriue  is  at  first  introduced  aa  pleading 
before  the  king  in  behalf  of  the  commonalty,  vrho 
had  been  driven  by  the  extortions  of  Wolsey  into 
Bome  illegal  excesses.  In  this  scene,  which  is  trae 
to  history,  we  have  her  upright  reasoning  mind, 
her  steadiness  of  purpose,  her  piety  and  benevo- 
lence, placed  in  a  strong  light.  The  unshrinking 
dignity  with  which  she  opposes  without  descending 
to  brave  the  Cardinal,  the  stern  rebuke  addressed 
to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  surveyor,  are  finely 
characteristic ;  and  by  thus  exhibiting  Katherino 
as  invested  with  all  her  conjugal  rights  and  influ- 
ence, and  royal  state,  the  subsequent  situations  are 
rendered  more  impressive.  She  is  placed  in  the 
first  instance  on  such  a  height  in  our  esteem  and 
reverence,  that  in  the  midst  of  her  abandonment 
and  degradation,  and  the  profound  pity  she  after- 
wards inspires,  the  first  effect  remains  unimpaired, 
and  she  never  falls  beneath  it. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  second  act  we  are  pre- 
pared for  the  proceedings  of  the  divorce,  and  our 
respect  for  Katherine  heightened  by  the  general 
sympathy  for  "  the  good  queen,"  as  she  is  expres- 
sively entitled,  and  by  the  following  beautiful 
Bulogium  on  her  character  uttered  by  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk  :— 

He  (Wolsey)  counsels  a  divorce — a  loss  of  her 
That  like  a  jewel  hath  hung  twenty  years 
About  his  neck,  yet  never  lost  her  lustre. 
Of  her  that  loves  him  with  that  excellence 
That  angels  love  go-?d  men  with;  even  of  her, 


«20  HISTORICAL   CHABACTERe. 

Tbat  when  the  greatest  stroke  of  fortune  folk, 
Will  bless  the  King! 

The  scene  in  which  Anna  Bullen  is  introduced 
as  expressing  her  grief  and  sympathy  for  her  roya^ 
mistress,  is  exquisitely  graceful. 

Here's  the  pang  that  pinches; 
His  highness  having  livM  so  long  with  her,  and  ah« 
So  good  a  lady,  that  no  tongue  could  ever 
Pronounce  dishonor  of  her, — by  my  life 
She  never  Icnew  harm-doing.     0  now,  after 
So  many  courses  of  the  sun  enthron'd, 
Still  growing  in  a  majesty  and  pomp, — the  whieb 
To  leave  is  a  thousand-fold  more  bitter,  than 
'Tis  sweet  at  first  to  acquire, — after  this  procest, 
To  give  her  the  avaunt !  it  is  a  pity 
Would  move  a  monster. 

OLD  LADT. 

Hearts  of  most  hard  temper 
Melt  and  lament  for  her. 

ANNE. 

0,  God's  will !  much  better 
She  ne'er  had  known  pomp :  though  it  be  temponL 
Yet  if  that  quarrel,  fortune,  do  divorce 
It  from  the  bearer,  'tis  a  sufferance,  panging 
M  soul  and  body's  severing. 

OLD  LADT. 

Alas,  poor  lady  I 
Bhe*s  a  stranger  now  again. 

ANNB. 

So  much  the  mora 
Most  ptty  drop  upon  her.    Verily, 
I  swear  'tis  better  to  be  lowly  bom, 


KATHEKINE  OF  AURAGON.        481 

And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

How  completely,  in  the  few  passages  appropn* 
lited  to  Anna  BuUen,  is  her  character  portrayed  1 
with  what  a  delicate  and  yet  luxuriant  grace  is  she 
iketched  off,  with  her  gayety  and  her  beauty,  hei 
levity,  her  extreme  mobility,  her  sweetness  of  dis- 
position, her  tenderness  of  heart,  and,  in  short,  all 
her  femalities  !  How  nobly  has  Shakspeare  done 
justice  to  the  two  women,  and  heightened  our 
interest  in  both,  by  placing  the  praises  of  Katherine 
in  the  mouth  of  Anna  Bullen !  and  how  charac- 
teristic of  the  latter,  that  she  should  first  express 
unbounded  pity  for  her  mistress,  insisting  chiefly 
on  her  fall  from  her  regal  state  and  worldly  pomp, 
thus  betraying  her  own  disposition : — 

For  she  that  had  all  the  fair  parts  of  woman, 
Had,  too,  a  woman's  heart,  which  ever  yet 
Affected  eminence,  wealth,  and  sovereignty. 

That  she  should  call  the  loss  of  temporal  pomp, 
once  enjoyed,  "  a  sufferance  equal  to  soul  and 
body's  severing;"  that  she  should  immediately 
protest  that  she  would  not  herself  be  a  queen — • 
"  No,  good  troth  I  not  for  all  the  riches  under 
heaven  1" — and  not  long  afterwards  ascend  without 
reluctance  that  throne  and  bed  from  which  her 
royal  mistress  had  been  so  cruelly  divorced  I — hoi* 
uatural  I  The  portrait  is  not  less  true  and  ma» 
lerly  than  thj*t  of  Kaiherine    but  the  character  if 


•  22  HISTORICAL   CHARACTERS. 

Dverborne  by  the  superior  moral  firmness  and  in* 
Irinsic  excellence  of  the  latter.  That  we  may  b« 
more  fully  sensible  of  this  contrast,  the  beautiful 
scene  just  alluded  to  immediately  precedes  Kathe* 
fine's  trial  at  Blackfriars,  and  the  description  of 
Anna  Bullen's  triumphant  beauty  at  her  corona 
tion,  is  placed  inunediately  before  the  dying  scene 
of  Katherine ;  yet  with  equal  good  taste  and  good 
feeling  Shakspeare  has  constantly  avoided  all  per- 
sonal collision  between  the  two  characters;  nor 
does  Anna  BuUen  ever  appear  as  queen  except  in 
the  pageant  of  the  procession,  which  in  reading  the 
play  is  scarcely  noticed. 

To  return  to  Katherine.  The  whole  of  the  trial 
scene  is  given  nearly  verbatim  from  the  old  chron- 
icles and  records ;  but  the  dryness  and  harshness 
of  the  law  proceedings  is  tempered  at  once  and 
elevated  by  the  genius  and  the  wisdom  of  the  poet 
It  appears,  on  referring  to  the  historical  authorities, 
that  when  the  affair  was  first  agitated  in  council, 
Katherine  replied  to  the  long  expositions  and  theo- 
logical sophistries  of  her  opponents  with  resolute 
simplicity  and  composure :  "  I  am  a  woman,  and 
kack  wit  and  learning  to  answer  these  opinions; 
but  I  am  sure  that  neither  the  king's  father  nor  my 
hther  would  have  condescended  to  our  marriage, 
if  it  had  been  judged  unlawful.  As  to  your  saying 
that  I  should  put  the  cause  to  eight  persons  of  thig 
i^alm,  for  quietness  of  the  king's  conscience,  J 
pray  Heaven  to  send  his  Grace  a  quiet  con8«;ience 
uid  tills  shall  be  your  answer,  that  I  sa^  I  am  hif 


KATHEKIXE  OF  ARUAGOX,       428 

lAwful  Wife,  and  to  him  lawfully  married,  thougi 
Bot  worthy  of  it ;  and  in  this  point  I  will  abide,  tiL 
Ihe  court  of  Rome,  which  was  privy  to  the  begin* 
ning,  have  mado  a  final  ending  of  it."  * 

Katherine's  appearance  in  the  court  at  Black- 
friars,  attended  by  a  noble  troop  of  ladies  and 
prelat<»a  of  her  counsel,  and  her  refusal  to  answer 
the  citation,  are  historical.'f  Her  speech  to  the 
king- 
Sir,  I  beseech  yon  do  me  right  and  justice, 
And  to  bestow  yonr  pity  on  me,  &c.  &c. 

is  taken  word  for  word  (as  nearly  as  the  change 
from  prose  to  blank  verse  would  allow)  from  the 
old  record  in  Hall.  It  would  have  been  easy  for 
Shakspeare  to  have  exalted  his  own  skill,  by  throw- 
ing a  coloring  of  poetrj'  and  eloquence  into  thia 
speech,  without  altering  the  sense  or  sentiment ; 
but  by  adhering  to  the  calm  argumentative  sim- 
plicity of  manner  and  diction  natural  to  the  woman, 
he  has  preserved  the  truth  of  character  without 
lessening  the  pathos  of  the  situation.  Her  chal- 
lenging Wolsey  as  a  "  foe  to  truth,"  and  her  very 

♦  Hall'g  Chronicle,  p.  781. 

*  The  court  at  Blackfnars  sat  on  the  28th  of  May,  1529.  "  Th« 
(iMDn  being  called,  accompanied  hj  the  four  bishops  and  others 
ot  her  counsel,  and  a  great  company  of  ladies  and  gentlewomen 
following  her;  and  after  her  ooeisance,  sadly  and  with  grtAt 
purity,  she  appealed  from  them  to  the  court  of  Rome." — iSSt< 
Hail  and  CavendisA''s  Life  of  Wolsey. 

The  account  wliich  Hume  gires  of  this  scene  is  rery  eltg&nt; 
kn^  after  the  affecting  naive-'^  of  the  >ld  chroniclers,  it  ■<  Ti0 
hM  and  ansatis&ctoiT. 


124  HISTORICAL   CIIARACTKK8. 

expicssions,  "  I  utterly  refuse, — yea,  from  my  mhu 
ubhor  you  for  my  judge,"  are  taken  from  fact  Th« 
sudden  burst  of  indignant  passion  towards  the  cloM 
of  this  scene, 

In  one  who  ever  yet 
Had  stood  to  charity,  and  displayed  the  effects 
Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom 
O'ertopplng  woman's  power; 

is  taken  from  nature,  though  it  occurred  on  a  dit 
ferent  occasion.* 

Lastly,  the  circumstance  of  her  being  called 
back  after  she  had  appealed  from  the  court,  and 
angrily  refusing  to  return,  is  from  the  life.  Master 
Griffith,  on  whose  arm  she  leaned,  observed  that 
she  was  called :  "  On,  on,"  quoth  she ;  "  it  maketh 
no  matter,  for  it  is  no  indifferent  court  for  me, 
therefore  I  will  not  tarry.     Go  on  your  ways."  f 

King  Henry's  own  assertion,  "  I  dare  to  say,  my 
brds,  that  for  her  womanhood,  wisdom,  nobility, 
and  gentleness,  never  prince  had  such  another 
wife,  and  therefore  if  I  would  willingly  change  her 
I  were  not  wise,"  is  thus  beautifully  paraphrased 
*)y  Shakspeare : — 

That  man  i'  the  world,  who  shall  report  he  has 
A  better  wife,  let  him  in  nought  be  trusted, 
^OT  speaking  false  in  that !    Thou  art,  alone, 

•  "  The  queen  answered  the  Duke  of  Suffolk  rery  biglily  anl 
HMtlnAtely,  with  many  high  words :  and  suddenly,  in  a  foiy 
ib«  departed  from  him  in'io  her  privy  chamber." —  ViU  HalP- 
CkrouicU. 

t  Tide  Carendish's  Life  of  Wolsey. 


CATHERINE   OP   AKRAGON.  42fi 

If  thy  rare  qualities,  sweet  gentleness, 

(Thy  meekness  saint-like,  wife-like  government, 

Obeying  in  commanding;  and  thy  parts. 

Sovereign  and  pious  else,  could  speak  thee  out,) 

The  queen  of  earthly  queens.    She  is  noble  born, 

And,  like  her  true  nobility,  she  has 

Carried  herself  towards  me. 

The  annotators  on  Shakspeare  have  all  observed 
Jie  close  resemblance  between  this  fine  passage — 

Sir, 
I  am  about  to  weep;  but,  thinking  that 
We  are  a  queen,  or  long  have  dreamed  so,  certain 
The  daughter  of  a  king — my  drops  of  tears 
I'll  turn  to  sparks  of  fire. 

•nd  the  speech  of  Hermione — 

I  am  not  prone  to  weeping  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are,  the  want  of  which  vain  dew 
Perchance  shall  dry  your  pities:  but  I  have 
That  honorable  grief  lodged  here,  which  bums 
Worse  than  tears  drown. 

But  these  verbal  gentlemen  do  not  seem  to  have 
felt  that  the  resemblance  is  merely  on  the  surface, 
and  that  the  two  passages  could  not  possibly  change 
places,  without  a  manifest  violation  of  the  truth  of 
character.  In  Hermione  it  is  pride  of  sex  merely 
m  Katherine  it  is  pride  of  place  and  pride  of  birth, 
Hermione,  though  so  superoly  majestic,  is  perfectly 
independent  of  her  regal  state  :  Katherine,  though 
10  meekly  pious,  will  neither  forget  hers,  nor  allow 
t  to  be  forgotte.i  by  others  for  a  moment.     He» 


I2fi  HISTORICAL  CHAAACTEBS. 

mione,  when  deprived  of  that  "  crown  and  comfoH 
of  her  life,"  her  husband's  love,  regards  all  thingi 
else  with  despair  and  indifference  except  her  femi- 
nine honor :  Katherine,  divorced  and  abandoned, 
itill  with  true  Spanbh  pride  stands  upon  respect, 
and  will  not  bate  one  atom  of  her  accustomed  state 

Though  unqueened,  yet  like  a  queen 
And  daughter  to  a  king,  inter  me  1 

The  passage — 

A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  that  owns 

A  moiety  of  the  throne — a  great  king's  daughter, 

here  standing 

To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honor  'fore 
Who  please  to  come  to  hear,* 

would  apply  nearly  to  both  queens,  yet  a  single 
sentiment — nay,  a  single  sentence — could  not  pos- 
«ibly  be  transferred  from  one  character  to  the 
other.  The  magnanimity,  the  noble  simplicity,  the 
purity  of  heart,  the  resignation  in  each — how  per- 
fectly equal  in  degree  1  how  diametrically  opposite 
in  kind  I  f 

*  winter's  Tale,  act  lii.  scene  2. 

1  I  bav<«  constantly  abstained  from  considering  any  of  th«M 
•haraeters  with  a  reference  to  the  theatre;  yet  I  cannot  help  n»- 
marking,  that  if  Mrs.  Siddons,  who  excelled  equally  in  Uermion* 
|nd  Katherine,  and  threw  such  majesty  of  demeanor,  (uob 
power,  such  plctures<;ue  effect.  Into  both,  could  likewise  feel  and 
xouTey  the  infinite  contrast  between  the  Ideal  grace,  the  claAsica] 
lepose  and  ImnglnatiTe  charm  thrown  round  Hermlone,  and  tfa« 
■•ttar-cf-bct,  artlass,  prosaic  nature  of  Katherine;  between  thi 


KATHERIXK  OF  AKRAOOX.       427 

Once  morfe  to  return  to  Katherine. 

We  are  told  by  Cavendish,  that  when  Wolsey 
fcnd  Carapeggio  visited  the  queen  by  the  king's 
order  she  was  found  at  work  among  her  women, 
»nd  came  forth  to  meet  the  cardinals  with  a  skein 
of  white  thread  hanging  about  her  neck;  that 
when  Wolsey  addressed  her  in  Latin,  she  inter- 
rupted him,  saying,  "  Nay,  good  my  lord,  speak  to 
me  in  English,  I  beseech  you ;  although  I  under- 
stand Latin."  "  Forsooth  then,"  quoth  my  lord, 
"  madam,  if  it  please  your  grace,  we  come  both  to 
know  your  mind,  how  ye  be  disposed  to  do  in  this 
matter  between  the  king  and  you,  and  also  to 
declare  secretly  our  opinions  and  our  counsel  unto 
you,  which  we  have  intended  of  very  zeal  and 
obedience  that  we  bear  to  your  grace."  "  My 
lords,  I  thank  you  then,"  quoth  she,  "  of  your  good 
wills ;  but  to  make  answer  to  your  request  I  cannot 
BO  suddenly,  for  I  was  set  among  my  maidens  at 
work,  thinking  full  little  of  any  such  matter; 
wherein  there  needeth  a  longer  deliberation,  and 
a  better  head  than  mine  to  make  answer  to  so 
noble  wise  men  as  ye  be.  I  had  need  of  good 
eounsel  in  this  case,  which  toucheth  me  so  near ; 
and  for  any  counsel  or  friendship  that  I  can  find 
n  England,  they  are  nothing  to  my  purpose  or 
profit.  Think  you,  I  pray  you,  my  lords,  will  any 
Englishmen    counsel,  or    be    friendly  unto    me, 

poetical  grandeur  of  the  former,  and  the  moral  dignity  of  the 
Utter, — then  she  certainly  exceeded  all  that  I  could  ha?*  tnuif 
kiad  possible,  even  tc  h*r  w^aderful  powers. 


•28  HISTORICAL   CHARACTEE8. 

kgainst  the  king's  pleasure,  they  being  his  subjects? 
Nay,  foi-sooth,  my  lords!  and  for  my  counsel,  in 
whom  I  do  intend  to  put  my  trust,  they  be  no* 
here ;  they  be  in  Spain,  in  my  native  country.* 
Alas  1  my  lords,  I  am  a  poor  woman  lacking  both 
■wit  and  understanding  sufficiently  to  answer  sach 
approved  wise  men  as  ye  be  both,  in  so  weighty  a 
matter.  I  pray  you  to  extend  your  good  and  in- 
different minds  in  your  authority  unto  me,  for  I 
am  a  simple  woman,  destitute  and  barren  of  friend- 
ship and  counsel,  here  in  a  foreign  region ;  and  as 
for  your  counsel,  I  will  not  refuse,  but  be  glad  to 
hear." 

It  appears,  also,  that  when  the  Archbishop  of 
York  and  Bishop  Tunstall  waited  on  her  at  her 
house  near  Huntingdon,  with  the  sentence  of  the 
divorce,  signed  by  Henry,  and  confirmed  by  act  of 
parliament,  she  refused  to  admit  its  validity,  she 
being  Henry's  wife,  and  not  his  subject.  The  bishop 
describes  her  conduct  in  his  letter :  "  She  being 
therewith  in  great  choler  and  agony,  and  always 
interrupting  our  words,  declared  that  she  would 
never  leave  the  name  of  queen,  but  would  persist 
in  accounting  herself  the  king's  wife  till  death." 

*  TbU  affecting  passage  Is  thus  rendered  by  Shakspeat*:— 

Nay,  forsooth,  my  friends, 
They  that  most  weigh  out  my  afflictions — 
They  that  my  trust  must  grow  to,  live  not  her*— 
They  ar<>,  as  all  my  other  comforts,  fiur  henoe. 
In  mine  own  country,  lords. 

.Hettry  Vm.  «el  HL  M.  i 


KATHBRINE  OF  ARRAGON.        429 

Wheu  the  official  letter  containing  minutes  of  their 
eonference,  was  shown  to  her,  she  seized  a  pen,  and 
dashed  it  angrily  across  every  sentence  in  whicb 
♦he  was  styled  Princess-dowager. 

If  now  we  turn  to  that  inimitable  scene  betwe-sn 
Catherine  and  the  two  cardinals,  (act  iii.  scene  1,) 
we  shall  observe  how  finely  Shakspeare  has  con- 
densed these  incidents,  and  unfolded  to  us  all  the 
workings  of  Katherine's  proud  yet  feminine  nature. 
She  is  discovered  at  work  with  some  of  her  women 
— she  calls  for  music  "  to  soothe  her  soul  grown 
sad  with  troubles  " — then  follows  the  little  song,  of 
which  the  sentiment  is  so  well  adapted  to  the  oo- 
casioc,  while  its  quaint  yet  classic  elegance  breathea 
the  very  spirit  of  those  times,  when  Surrey  lovedl 
ftnd  sung. 

SONG. 

Orpheus  with  his  lute-made  trees, 
And  the  mountain-tops  that  freeze. 

Bow  themselves  when  he  did  sing:. 
To  his  music,  plants  and  flowers 
Ever  sprung,  as  sun  and  showers 

There  had  made  a  lasting  spring. 

Every  thing  thai  heard  him  play 
Even  the  billows  of  the  sea. 

Hung  their  heads  and  then  lay  by 
In  sweet  music  is  such  art, 
Killing  care,  and  grief  of  heart, 

Fall  asleep,  oa  hearing,  die. 

V^ej  are  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  fwi 


tSO  HISTORICAL   CHASACTERB. 

rardinald.  Katherine's  perception  of  theii  subtlety 
—her  suspicion  of  their  purpose — her  sense  of  her 
own  weakness  and  inability  to  contend  with  them, 
and  her  mild  subdued  dignity,  are  beautifully  rep» 
resented ;  as  also  the  guarded  self-command  with 
which  she  eludes  ^ving  a  definitive  answer ;  bat 
when  they  counsel  her  to  that  which  she,  who 
knows  Henry,  feels  must  end  in  her  ruin,  then  the 
native  temper  is  roused  at  once,  or,  to  use  Tunstall'i 
expression, "  the  choler  and  the  agony,"  burst  forth 
in  words. 

Is  this  your  christian  counsel  ?    Out  upon  ye ! 
Heaven  is  above  all  yet;  there  sits  a  Judji;e 
That  no  king  can  corrupt. 

WOLSKT. 

Tour  rage  mistakes  us. 

QUBEN  KATHERCTB. 

The  more  shame  for  ye !    Holy  men  I  thought  ye, 
Upon  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues; 
But  cardinal  sins,  and  hollow  hearts,  I  fear  ye: 
Mend  them,  for  shame,  my  lords :  is  this  your  comfort 
The  cordial  that  ye  bring  a  wretched  lady  ? 

With  the  same  force  of  language,  and  impetuooi 
yet  dignified  feeling,  she  asserts  her  own  conjugal 
truth  and  merit,  and  insists  upon  her  rights. 

Have  I  liv'd  thus  long,  (let  me  speak  myself, 
Shice  virtue  finds  no  friends,)  a  wife,  a  true  one 
A  woman,  (I  dare  say,  without  vain-glory,) 
Never  yet  branded  with  suspicion  ' 
Unre  I,  with  oil  my  full  afiisctiona, 


KATHERINE  OF  ARRAOON.        431 

Still  met  the  king — lov'd  him  next  heaven,  obey*d  him 
Been  out  of  fondness  superstitious  to  him — 
Almost  forgot  my  prayers  to  content  him. 
And  am  I  thtis  rewarded?  'tis  not  well,  lords,  &o. 

My  lord,  I  dare  not  make  myself  so  goflty, 
To  give  up  willingly  that  noble  title 
four  master  wed  me  to:  nothing  but  death 
Shall  e'er  divorce  my  dignities. 

A,nd  this  burst  of  unwonted  passion  is  immediately 
followed  by  the  natural  reaotion ;  it  subsides  into 
tears,  dejection,  and  a  mournful  self-compassion. 

Would  I  had  never  trod  this  English  ground, 

Or  felt  the  flatteries  that  grow  upon  it. 

What  will  become  of  me  now,  wretched  lady? 

I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living. 

Alas !  poor  wenches  I  where  are  now  your  fortunes? 

[  To  her  vxmttM. 
Shipwrecked  upon  a  kingdom,  where  no  pity. 
No  friends,  no  hope,  no  kindred  weep  for  me ! 
Almost  no  grave  allowed  me !  Like  the  lily  that  ono« 
Was  mistress  of  the  field,  and  flourish' d, 
I'D  hang  my  head  and  perish. 

Dr.  Johnson  observes  on  this  scene,  that  all  Kathe> 
fine's  distresses  could  not  save  her  from  a  qnibUe 
on  the  word  cardinal. 

Holy  men  I  thought  ye. 
Upon  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues; 
Bat  cardinal  sms,  and  hoUow  learts,  I  fear  ye  I 

When  we  read  this  passage  in  connection  with  tlie 
fituation  and  sentiment,  the  scornful  play  npoo  th* 


132  HISTORICAL   CHAUACTBKS. 

wonls  IS  iiot  only  appropriate  and  natural,  it  seem 
inevitable.  Katherine,  assuredly,  is  neither  an 
imaginative  nor  a  witty  personage ;  but  we  all  ac- 
knowledge the  truism,  that  anger  inspires  wit,  and 
whenever  there  is  passion  there  is  poetry.  In  the 
instance  just  alluded  to,  the  sarcasm  springs  natu- 
rally out  from  the  bitter  indignation  of  the  moment. 
In  her  grand  rebuke  of  Wolsey,  in  the  trial  scene, 
how  just  and  beautiful  is  the  gradual  elevation  of 
her  language,  till  it  rises  into  that  magnificent 
image — 

Yon  have  by  fortune  and  his  highness'  favors, 
Gone  slightly  o'er  low  steps,  and  now  are  mounted, 
Where  powers  are  your  retainers,  &c. 

In  the  depth  of  her  affliction,  the  pathos  as  nafc* 
orally  clothes  itself  in  poetry. 

Like  the  lily. 
That  was  mistress  of  the  field,  and  flourish'd, 
I'll  hang  my  head  and  perish. 

But  these,  I  believe,  are  the  only  instances  of  im- 
agery throughout ;  for,  in  general,  her  language  is 
plain  and  energetic.  It  has  the  strength  and  sim- 
plicity of  her  character,  with  very  little  metaphor 
lind  less  wit 

In  approaching  the  last  scene  ot  Katherine's  life, 
X  feel  as  if  about  to  tread  within  a  sanctuary,  where 
nothing  befits  us  but  silence  and  tears ;  veneratioi 
10  strives  with  compassion,  tenderness  with  awe.* 

•  Dr.  Johnson  is  of  opinion,  that  this  scene  "  Is  above  tiaj 
Mh«r  part  of  Shakspeare's  tragediee,  and  perhaps   ahore  uaf 


KATHERINE   OF   ARRAGON  488 

We  mu^t  suppose  a  long  interval  to  have  elapsed 
liiiRti  Katharine's  interview  with  the  two  cardinal*. 
Wolsey  was  disgraced,  and  poor  Anna  Bullen  at 
the  height  of  her  short-lived  prosperity.  It  was 
W(4sey's  fate  to  be  detested  by  both  queens.  In 
the  pursuance  of  his  own  selfish  and  ambitious  de- 
signs, he  had  treated  both  with  perfidy ;  and  one 
was  the  remote,  the  other  the  immediate,  cause  of 
his  ruin.* 

The  ruffian  king,  of  whom  one  hates  to  think, 

•cene  of  any  other  poet,  tender  and  pathetic ;  without  gods,  or 
furies,  or  poisons,  or  precipices;  without  the  help  of  romantie 
circumstances ;  without  improbable  sallies  of  poetical  lamenta. 
tion,  and  without  any  throes  of  tumultuous  misery." 

I  have  already  observed,  that  in  judging  of  Shakspeare's  char- 
acters as  of  persons  we  meet  in  real  life,  we  are  swayed  uncon- 
sciously by  our  own  habits  and  feelings,  and  our  preference  gov- 
erned, more  or  less,  by  our  individual  prejudices  or  sympathies. 
Thus,  Dr.  Johnson,  who  Ims  not  a  word  to  bestow  on  Imogen, 
and  who  has  treated  poor  Juliet  as  if  she  had  been  in  truth  "  the 
very  beadle  to  an  amorous  sigh,"  does  full  justice  to  the  char- 
acter of  Eatherine,  because  the  logical  turn  of  his  mind,  his 
vigorous  intellect,  and  his  austere  integrity,  enabled  him  to  ap- 
preciate its  peculiar  beauties :  and,  accordingly,  we  find  that  he 
gives  it,  not  only  unqualified,  but  almost  exclusive  admiration: 
he  goes  so  far  as  to  assert,  that  in  this  play  the  genius  of  Shak- 
■peaie  comes  in  and  goes  out  with  Eatherine. 

*  It  will  be  remembered,  that  in  early  youth  Anna  BuUen  waa 
betrothed  to  Lord  Henry  Percy,  who  was  passionately  in  love 
with  her.  Wolsey,  to  serve  the  king's  purposes,  broke  off  this 
match,  and  forced  Percy  into  an  unwilling  marriage  with  Lady 
Mary  Talbot.  "  The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland,"  who  ap- 
tested  Wolsey  at  York,  was  this  very  Percy  r  he  was  chosen  fo* 
hi*  mission  by  the  interftrenoe  of  Anna  BuUen — a  piece  of 
vengeance  truly  feminine  in  its  mixture  of  sentiment  and  8pite> 
fulness;  and  every  way  characteristic  of  the  individual  woamn. 
28 


484  HISTORICAL   CHABACTERS. 

was  bent  on  forcing  Katherine  to  concede  her 
rights,  and  illegitimize  her  daughter,  in  favor  of  the 
offspring  of  Anna  BuUen :  she  steadily  refused,  was 
declared  contumacious,  and  the  sentence  of  divorce 
pronounced  in  1533.  Such  of  her  attendants  as 
persisted  in  paying  her  the  honors  due  to  a  queen 
were  driven  from  her  household;  those  who  con- 
sented to  serve  her  as  princess-dowager,  she  refused 
to  admit  into  her  presence ;  so  that  she  remained 
unattended,  except  by  a  few  women,  and  her  gen- 
tleman usher,  Griffith.  During  the  last  eighteen 
months  of  her  life,  she  resided  at  Kimbolton.  Her 
nephew,  Charles  V.,  had  offered  her  an  asylum 
and  princely  treatment;  but  Katherine,  broken  in 
heart,  and  declining  in  health,  was  unwilling  to 
drag  the  spectacle  of  her  miser)'  and  degradation 
into  a  strange  country :  she  pined  in  her  loneliness, 
deprived  of  her  daughter,  receiving  no  consolation 
from  the  pope,  and  no  redress  from  the  emperor. 
Wounded  pride,  wronged  affection,  and  a  canker- 
ing jealousy  of  the  woman  preferred  to  her,  (which 
though  it  never  broke  out  into  unseemly  words,  is 
enumerated  as  one  of  the  causes  of  her  death,)  at 
length  wore  out  a  feeble  frame.  "  Thus,"  says  the 
chronicle,  "  Queen  Katherine  fell  into  her  last  sick- 
ness; and  though  the  king  sent  to  comfort  her 
through  Chapuys,  the  emperor's  ambassador,  she 
prew  worse  and  worse ;  and  finding  death  now 
coming,  she  caused  a  maid  attending  on  her  li 
WTit4  to  the  king  to  this  effect : — 


KATHERINR   OF   ARRAGON.  435 

"  Mr  most  dear  Lord,  King,  and  Husband ; 
"  The  hour  of  my  death  now  approaching,  I  can- 
»ot  choose  but,  out  of  the  'ove  \  bear  you,  advise 
jrou  of  your  soul's  health,  which  you  ought  to  pre- 
'er  before  all  considerations  of  the  world  or  flesh 
whatsoever ;  for  which  yet  you  have  cast  me  into 
Duiny  calamities,  and  yourself  into  many  troubles: 
but  I  forgive  you  all,  and  pray  God  to  do  so  like- 
wise ;  for  the  rest,  I  commend  unto  you  Mary  our 
daughter,  beseeching  you  to  be  a  good  father  to 
her,  as  I  have  heretofore  desired.  I  must  intreat 
you  also  to  respect  my  maids,  and  give  them  in 
marriage,  which  is  not  much,  they  being  but  three, 
and  all  my  other  servants  a  year's  pay  besides  their 
due,  lest  otherwise  they  be  unprovided  for :  lastly, 
I  make  this  vow,  that  mine  eyes  desire  you  above 
all  things. — Farewell ! "  * 

"She  also  wrote  another  letter  to  the  ambassador, 
desiring  that  he  would  remind  the  king  of  her  dying 
request,  and  urge  him  to  do  her  this  last  right 

What  the  historian  relates,  Shakspeare  realizes. 
On  the  wonderful  beauty  of  Katherine's  closing 
Bcene  we  need  not  dwell ;  for  that  requires  no  il- 
lustration. In  transferring  the  sentiments  of  hei 
letter  to  her  lips,  Shakspeare  has  given  them  added 
grace,  and  pathos,  and  tenderness,  without  injuring 
.heir  truth  and  simplicity  :  the  feelings,  and  almost 

*  The  king  is  said  to  hare  wept  on  reading  this  letter,  and  hef 
body  heing  Interred  at  Peterbro',  in  the  monastery,  for  honor  of 
ker  memory  it  was  preserved  at  the  dissolution,  and  erected  inti 

bishop's  see.  —  E&r6ert'«  ^fe  of  Henry  '''III. 


KK  HISTORICAL  CHAR ACl  BBS. 

tbe  manner  of  expression,  are  Katharine's  own 
The  severe  justice  with  which  she  draws  the 
character  of  Wolsey  is  extremely  characteristic  I 
the  benign  candor  with  which  she  listens  to  the 
praise  of  him  "  whom  living  she  most  hated,"  is  not 
less  so.  How  beautiful  her  religious  enthusiasm  ! — 
the  slumber  which  visits  her  pillow,  as  she  listens 
to  that  sad  music  she  called  her  knell ;  her  awaken* 
ing  from  the  vision  of  celestial  joy  to  find  herself 
■till  on  earth — 

Spirits  of  peace !  where  are  ye  ?  are  ye  gone, 
And  leave  me  here  in  wretchedness  behind  ye? 

how  unspeakably  beautiful !  And  to  consummate 
all  in  one  final  touch  of  truth  and  nature,  we  see 
that  consciousness  of  her  own  worth  and  integrity 
which  had  sustained  her  through  all  her  trials  of 
heart,  and  that  pride  of  station  for  which  she  had 
contended  through  long  years, — which  had  become 
more  dear  by  opposition,  and  by  the  perseverance 
with  which  she  had  asserted  it, — remaining  the  last 
Itrong  feeling  upon  her  mind,  to  the  very  last  hour 
tf  existence. 

When  I  am  dead,  good  wench, 
Let  me  be  used  with  honor:  strew  me  over 
With  maiden  flowers,  that  all  the  world  may  know 
I  was  a  chaste  wife  to  my  grave;  embalm  me. 
Then  lay  me  forth:  although  unqueen'J,  yot  like 
A  queen,  and  daughter  to  a  king,  int«T  me 
,  o«n  no  more. 


tADY   MACBETH.  48  T 

In  the  epilogue  to  this  play,*  it  is  recommended — 

To  the  merciful  construction  of  good  women, 
For  such  a  one  we  show'd  them : 

klluding  to  the  character  of  Queen  Katherine. 
Bhakspeare  has,  in  fact,  placed  before  us  a  queen 
and  a  heroine,  who  in  the  first  place,  and  above  all, 
is  a  good  woman  ;  and  I  repeat,  that  in  doing  so, 
and  in  trusting  for  all  his  effect  to  truth  and  virtue, 
he  has  given  a  sublime  proof  of  his  genius  and  his 
wisdom  ; — for  which,  among  many  other  obligations, 
we  women  remain  his  debtors. 


LADY  MACBETH. 

I  DOUBT  whether  the  epithet  historical  can  prop- 
erly apply  to  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth ;  for 
though  tho  subject  of  the  play  be  taken  from  history, 
we  never  think  of  her  with  any  refei  ence  to  histor- 
ical associations,  as  we  do  with  regard  to  Con- 
stance, Volumnia,  Katherine  of  Arragon,  and  other* 
I  remember  reading  some  critique,  in  which  Lady 
Macbetn  was  styled  the  "  Scottish  queen ; "  and 
methous;ht  the  title,  as  applied  to  he)  sounded  like 
a  vulgarism.  It  appears  that  the  real  wife  of  Mac- 
beth,— die  who  livss  onlv  id  the  obscure  record  of 

*  Writttu,  (as  the  coig..mzaMxci  <nipi>oae.)  not  bv  Shakjpcw^ 
<«  bj  B«t  ' 


185  HISTORICAL   CFAKACTERH. 

%n  obscure  age,  bore  the  very  unmusical  appell» 
6on  of  Graoch,  and  was  instigated  to  the  murder  <A 
Duncan,  not  only  by  ambition,  but  by  motives  of 
vengeance.  She  was  the  grand-daughter  of  Ken- 
neth the  Fourth,  killed  in  1003,  fighting  against 
Malcolm  the  Second,  the  Father  of  Duncan.  Mac- 
beth reigned  over  Scotland  from  the  year  1089  to 
1056 — but  what  is  all  this  to  the  purpose  ?  The 
»temly  magnificent  creation  of  the  poet  stands  be- 
fore us  independent  of  all  these  aids  of  fancy :  sb^ 
is  Lady  Macbeth ;  as  such  she  lives,  she  reigns, 
and  is  immortal  in  the  world  to  imagination.  What 
earthly  title  could  add  to  her  grandeur?  what 
human  record  or  attestation  strengthen  our  impres- 
sion of  her  reality  ? 

Characters  in  history  move  before  us  like  a  pro- 
cession of  figures  in  basso  relievo :  we  see  one  side 
only,  that  which  the  artist  chose  to  exhibit  to  us ; 
the  rest  is  sunk  in  the  block :  the  same  characters 
in  Shakspeare  are  like  the  statues  cut  out  of  the 
block,  fashioned,  finished,  tangible  in  every  part : 
we  may  consider  them  under  every  aspect,  we  may 
examine  them  on  every  side.  As  the  classical 
times,  when  the  garb  did  not  make  the  man,  were 
peculiarly  favorable  to  the  development  and  delin- 
eation of  the  human  form,  and  have  handed  down 
to  OS  the  purest  models  of  strength  and  grace — s« 
the  times  in  which  Shakspeare  lived  were  favorable 
to  the  vigorous  dehneation  of  natural  charactet 
Society  was  not  then  one  vast  conventional  ma* 
|Derade  of  manners.    In  his  revelations,  the  accii 


LADT   MACBETH.  439 

iental  circumstances  are  to  the  mdividual  character, 
what  the  drapery  of  the  antique  statue  is  to  the 
itatue  itself;  it  is  evident,  that,  though  adapted  to 
«ach  other,  and  studied  relatively,  they  were  also 
itudied  separately.  We  trace  through  the  folds  the 
fine  and  true  proportions  of  the  figure  beneath : 
they  seem  and  are  independent  of  each  otner  to 
the  practised  eye,  though  carved  together  from  the 
same  enduring  substance;  at  once  perfectly  dis- 
tinct and  eternally  inseparable.  In  history  we  can 
but  study  character  in  relation  to  events,  to  situa- 
tion and  circumstances,  which  disguise  and  encum- 
ber it :  we  are  left  to  imagine,  to  infer,  what  certain 
people  must  have  been,  from  the  manner  in  which 
they  have  acted  or  suffered.  Shakspeare  and  na- 
ture bring  us  back  to  the  true  order  of  things ;  and 
showing  us  what  the  human  being  is,  enable  us  to 
judge  of  the  possible  as  well  as  the  positive  result 
in  acting  and  suffering.  Here,  instead  of  judging 
the  individual  by  his  actions,  we  are  enabled  to 
judge  of  actions  by  a  reference  to  the  individual. 
When  we  can  carry  this  power  into  the  experience 
of  real  life,  we  shall  perhaps  be  more  just  to  one 
another,  and  not  consider  ourselves  aggrieved,  be- 
cause we  cannot  gather  figs  from  thistles  and  grapes 
from  thorns. 

In  the  play  or  poem  of  Macbeth,  the  interest  of 
the  story  is  so  engrossing,  the  events  so  rapid  and 
•o  appalling,  the  accessories  so  sublimely  conceived 
and  so  skilfully  combined,  that  it  is  difficult  to  de- 
^L  Lady  Meicbeth  from  the  dramatic  situation,  ot 


iAO  HISTORICAL   CHAKACTERS 

eonsider  her  apart  from  the  terrible  assoinations  ol 
our  first  and  earliest  impressions.  As  the  vulgar 
idea  of  a  Juliet — that  all-beautiful  and  heaven- 
gifted  child  of  the  south — is  merely  a  love-sick  girl 
in  white  satin,  so  the  commoa-place  idea  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  though  endowed  with  the  rarest  powen, 
{he  loftiest  energies,  and  the  profoundest  afi'cctiona, 
is  nothing  but  a  fierce,  cruel  woman,  brandisbmg  a 
couple  of  daggers,  and  inciting  her  husband  to 
butcher  a  poor  old  king. 

Even  those  who  reflect  more  deeply  are  apt  to 
consider  rather  the  mode  in  which  a  certain  char- 
acter is  manifested,  than  the  combination  of  abstract 
qualities  making  up  that  individual  human  being; 
BO  what  should  be  last,  is  first ;  effects  are  mistaken 
for  causes,  qualities  are  confounded  with  their  re- 
sults, and  the  perversion  of  what  is  essentially 
good,  with  the  operation  of  positive  evil.  Hence 
it  is,  that  those  who  can  feel  and  estimate  the  mag- 
nificent conception  and  poetical  development  of  the 
character,  have  overlooked  the  grand  moral  lesson 
it  conveys;  they  forget  that  the  crime  of  Lady 
Macbeth  terrifies  us  in  proportion  as  we  sympathize 
with  her ;  and  that  this  sympathy  is  in  proportion 
to  the  degree  of  pride,  passion,  and  intellect,  we 
may  ourselves  possess.  It  is  good  to  behold  and  to 
tremble  at  the  possible  result  of  the  noblest  facul- 
ties uncontrolled  or  perverted.  True  it  is,  that  the 
ambitious  women  of  these  civilized  times  do  not 
murder  sleeping  kings:  but  are  there,  therefore,  no 
Lady  Macbeths  in  the  world  ?  no  women  who,  on 


I.ADT    MACBETH.  441 

ier  Ike  Influence  of  a  diseased  or  excited  appetite 
for  power  or  distinction,  would  sacrifice  the  happi- 
ness of  a  daughter,  the  fortunes  of  a  husband,  tie 
principles  of  a  son,  and  peril  their  own  souls  ? 
«  «  •  »  « 

The  character  of  Macbeth  is  considered  as  one 
of  the  most  complex  In  the  whole  range  of  Shak- 
Bpeare's  dramatic  creations.  He  is  represented  in 
the  course  of  the  action  under  such  a  variety  ci 
aspects ;  the  good  and  evil  qualities  of  his  mind  are 
BO  poised  and  blended,  and  instead  of  being  gradu- 
ally and  successively  developed,  evolve  themselves 
BO  like  shifting  lights  and  shadows  playing  over  the 
»'  unstable  waters,"  that  his  character  has  afforded 
a  continual  and  Interesting  subject  of  analysis  and 
contemplation.  None  of  Shakspeare's  personages 
have  been  treated  of  more  at  large ;  none  have 
been  more  minutely  criticized  and  profoundly  ex- 
amined. A  single  feature  In  his  character — the 
question,  for  instance,  as  to  whether  his  courage  be 
personal  or  constitutional,  or  excited  by  mere  deS' 
peration — has  been  canvassed,  asserted,  and  refuted, 
in  two  masterly  essays. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  character  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth resolves  itself  into  few  and  simple  elements. 
■J^e  grand  features  of  her  character  are  so  distinctly 
And  prominently  marked,  that,  though  acknowl- 
edged to  be  one  of  the  poet's  most  sublime  crea- 
tions, she  has  been  passed  over  with  i;omparatively 
few  words :  generally  speaking,  the  commentator! 
leem  to  have  considered  Ladj  Macbeth  rather  with 


142  HISTOKICAL   CHARACTKHB. 

reference  to  her  husband,  and  as  influencing  tha 
ftction  of  the  drama,  than  as  an  individual  concep- 
tion of  amazing  power,  poetry,  and  beauty :  or  if 
they  do  individualize  her,  it  is  ever  with  those  asso- 
ciations of  scenic  representation  which  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons  has  identified  with  the  character.  Those  who 
have  been  accustomed  to  see  it  arrayed  in  the  form 
and  lineaments  of  that  magnificent  woman,  and 
developed  with  her  wonder-working  powers,  seem 
satisfied  to  leave  it  there,  as  if  nothing  more  could 
be  said  or  added.* 

But  the  generation  which  beheld  Mrs.  Siddons  in 
her  glory  is  passing  away,  and  we  are  again  left  to 
our  own  unassisted  feelings,  or  to  all  the  satisfaction 
to  be  derived  from  the  sagacity  of  critics  and  the 
reflections  of  commentators.  Let  us  turn  to  them 
for  a  moment. 

Dr.  Johnson,  who  seems  to  have  regarded  her  as 
nothing  better  than  a  kind  of  ogress,  tells  us,  in  so 
many  words,  that  "  Lady  Macbeth  is  merely  de- 
tested." Schlegel  dismisses  her  in  haste,  as  a  spe- 
cies of  female  fury.  In  the  two  essays  on  Macbeth 
already  mentioned,  she  is  passed  over  with  one  or 

*  Mn.  Siddons  left  among  her  papers  an  analysis  of  the  char- 
Mter  of  Lady  Macbeth,  which  I  hare  nerer  seen :  but  I  har* 
heard  her  say,  that  after  playing  the  part  for  thirty  years,  she 
neTer  road  it  without  discovering  in  it  something  new.  She  had 
»n  idea  that  Lady  Macbeth  most  from  her  Celtic  origin  have  boen 
•  small,  Mr,  blue-eyed  woman.  Bonduca,  Fredegonde,  Brune- 
btnlt,  and  other  Amazons  of  the  gothic  ages  were  of  this  coia* 
plezion  ;  yet  I  cannot  help  fancying  Lady  Macbeth  dark.  Ilk* 
au<4  Agnes  of  Douglas — a  sort  of  Lady  Macbeth  in  her  way. 


LADY   MACBETH.  44^ 

two  slight  allusions.  The  only  justice  that  has  ye\ 
been  done  to  her  is  by  Hazlitt,  in  the  "  Characters 
of  Shakspeare's  Plays."  Nothing  can  be  finer  than 
his  remarks  as  far  as  they  go,  but  his  plan  did  not 
hUow  him  sufficient  space  to  work  out  his  own  con 
ception  of  the  character,  with  the  minuteness  it 
requires.  All  that  he  says  is  just  in  sentiment,  and 
most  eloquent  in  the  expression ;  but  in  leaving 
Borne  of  the  finest  points  altogether  untouched,  he 
has  also  left  us  in  doubt  whether  he  even  felt  or 
perceived  them ;  and  this  masterly  criticism  stops 
short  of  the  whole  truth — it  is  a  little  superficial, 
and  a  little  too  harsh. 

In  the  mind  of  Lady  Macbeth,  ambition  is  rep- 
resented as  the  ruling  motive,  an  intense  over- 
mastering passion,  which  is  gratified  at  the  expense 
of  every  just  and  generous  principle,  and  every 
feminine  feeling.  In  the  pursuit  of  her  object,  she 
e  cruel,  treacherous,  and  daring.  She  is  doubly, 
trebly  dyed  in  guilt  and  blood  ;  for  the  murder  she 
instigates  is  rendered  more  frightful  by  disloyalty 
and  ingratitude,  and  by  the  violation  of  all  the 
most  sacred  claims  of  kindred  and  hospitality. 
When  her  husband's  more  kindly  nature  shrinks 
from  the  perpetration  of  the  deed  of  horror,  she, 
like  an  evil  genius,  whispers  him  on  to  his  damna- 
tion. The  full  measure  of  her  wickedness  is  never 
4i8guised,  the  magnitude  and  atrocity  of  her  crime 
is  never  extenuated,  forgotten,  or  forgiven,  vu  the 
vhole  course  of  the  play.  Our  judgment  is  no! 
tewildcred,  nor  our  moral  feeling  insulted,  by  tb« 


144  HISTOBICAL  CHASACTER8. 

■endmental  jumble  of  great  crimes  and  dazzling 
virtues,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Gemum  scho<^ 
and  of  some  admirable  writers  of  our  own  time. 
Lady  Macbeth's  amazing  power  of  intellect,  her 
inexorable  determination  of  purpose,  her  super- 
human strength  of  nerve,  render  her  as  fearful  in 
herself  as  her  deeds  are  hateful ;  yet  she  is  not  a 
mere  monster  of  depravity,  with  whom  we  have 
nothing  in  common,  nor  a  meteor  whose  destroying 
path  we  watch  in  ignorant  affright  and  amaze.  She 
b  a  terrible  impersonation  of  evil  passions  and 
mighty  powers,  never  so  far  removed  from  our  own 
nature  as  to  be  cast  beyond  the  pale  of  our  sympa- 
thies ;  for  the  woman  herself  remains  a  woman  to 
the  last — still  linked  with  her  sex  and  with  hoi- 
manity. 

This  impression  is  produced  partly  by  the  essen- 
tial truth  in  the  conception  of  the  character,  emd 
partly  by  the  manner  in  which  it  is  evolved ;  by  a 
combination  of  minute  and  delicate  touches,  in 
Bome  instances  by  speech,  in  others  by  silence  :  at 
one  time  by  what  is  revealed,  at  another  by  what 
we  are  left  to  infer.  As  in  real  life,  we  perceive 
distinctions  in  character  we  cannot  always  explain, 
and  receive  impressions  for  which  we  cannot  always 
account,  without  going  back  to  the  be&inning  of  an 
acquaintance,  and  recalling  many  ana  trilling  cu> 
cumstances — looks,  and  tones,  and  words :  thus,  to 
•xplain  that  hold  which  Lady  Macbeth,  in  the  midi^ 
«f  all  her  atrocities,  still  keeps  upon  our  feelings,  it 
m  necessary  to  trace  minutely  tho  action  of  the 


LADY   MACBETH.  445 

play,  as  far  as  ihe  is  concemed  in  it,  from  its  very 
commencement  to  its  close. 

We  must  bear  in  mind,  that  the  first  idea  of  mup» 
dering  Duncan  is  not  suggested  by  Lady  Macbeth 
to  her  husband  :  it  springs  within  his  mind,  and  is 
revealed  to  us,  before  his  first  interview  with  hii 
wife, — before  she  is  introduced  or  ev«n  alluded  to. 

MACBETH. 

This  supernatural  soliciting 
Cannot  be  ill ;  cannot  be  good.    If  ill, 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 
Commencing  in  a  truth'?    I  am  thane  of  Cawdor — 
If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion, 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  ray  hair, 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 
Against  the  use  of  nature  ? 

It  will  be  said,  that  the  same  "  horrid  sugges- 
tion "  prdfeents  itself  spontaneously  to  her,  on  the 
reception  of  his  letter ;  or  rather,  that  the  letter 
itself  acts  upon  her  mind  as  the  prophecy  of  the 
Weird  Sisters  on  the  mind  of  her  husband,  kind- 
ling the  latent  passion  for  empire  into  a  quench- 
less flame.  We  are  prepared  to  see  the  train  of 
evil,  first  lighted  by  hellish  agency,  extend  itself  to 
her  through  the  medium  of  her  husband ;  but  we 
are  spared  the  more  revolting  idea  that  it  originated 
with  her.  The  guilt  is  thus  more  equally  divided 
than  we  should  suppose,  when  we  hear  people  pity- 
ing "the  noble  rature  of  Macbeth,"  bewildered 
tnd  goaded  on  to  crime,  solely  or  chiefly  by  the  in 
■ngatior  of  his  wife. 


446  HISIORICAI.  CHABACTER8. 

It  is  true  that  she  afterwards  appears  the  mor* 
active  agent  of  the  two ;  but  it  is  less  through  her 
preeminence  in  wickedness  than  through  her  supe- 
riority of  intellect.  The  eloquence — the  fierce, 
fervid  eloquence  with  which  she  bears  down  the 
"denting  and  reluctant  spirit  of  her  husband,  the 
dexterous  sophistry  with  which  she  wards  off  his 
objections,  her  artful  and  affected  doubts  of  his 
courage — the  sarcastic  manner  in  which  she  leta 
fall  the  word  coward — a  word  which  no  man  can 
endure  from  another,  still  less  from  a  woman,  and 
least  of  all  from  a  woman  he  loves — and  the  bold 
address  with  which  she  removes  all  obstacles,  si- 
lences all  arguments,  overpowers  all  scruples,  and 
marshals  the  way  before  him,  absolutely  make  ua 
shrink  before  the  commanding  intellect  of  the 
woman,  with  a  terror  in  which  interest  and  admi- 
ration are  strangely  mingled.  • 

LADT  MACBETH. 

Ha  has  almost  supp'd:  why  have  you  left  tho  chniabctrl 

MACBETH. 

Hath  he  ask'd  for  me? 

LADT  MACBETH. 

Know  you  not,  he  has? 

MACBETH. 

We  will  proceed  no  farther  in  this  business  t 
He  hath  honored  me  of  late,  and  I  have  bought 
Solden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  i^<M^ 
ftH  oast  aside  so  soon. 


.JlDY   MACBETH.  iif 

LADY  MACBETH. 

Was  the  hope  dnink, 
Wflerein  you  dress'd  yourseif  ?  hath  it  slept  ihiei^ 
And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely  ?   From  this  time, 
Bnch  I  account  thy  love.    Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valor, 
As  thou  art  in  desire  ?    Would'st  thou  have  tb«t 
Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life, 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem ; 
Letting  I  dare  not  wait  upon  1  would, 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  ada^e  ? 


MACBETH. 

Pr'ythee,  peaoe 
I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man; 
Who  dares  do  more,  is  none. 


LADY  MACBETH. 

What  beast  was  it  then, 
That  made  you  break  this  enterprisa  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  80  much  more  the  man.    Nor  time,  nor  place. 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both; 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you.    I  have  given  suck,  and  know 
How  tender  'tis  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me: 
I  would.  whUe  it  were  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  pluck' d  my  nipple  from  Lis  boneless  gums. 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  Lad  I  so  sworn,  as  jtM 
Bare  done  to  this. 


MACBBTH. 

If  we  should  faQ. 


I4S  HISTOKICAL,   CBARACTERB. 

LADT  KACBKTH. 

We  faU.* 
But  screw  yonr  courage  to  the  sticking-place. 
And  we'll  not  falL 

Again,  in  the  murdering  scene,  the  obdurate  in» 
flexibility  of  purpose  with  which  she  drive*  on 
Macbeth  to  the  execution  of  their  project,  and  her 
masculine  indifference  to  blood  and  death,  would 
inspire  unmitigated  disgust  and  horror,  but  for  the 
involuntary  consciousness  that  it  is  produced  rather 
by  the  exertion  of  a  strong  power  over  herself, 
than  by  absolute  depravity  of  disposition  and  feroc- 
ity of  temper.  This  impression  of  her  character 
is  brought  home  at  once  to  our  very  hearts  with 
the  most  profound  knowledge  of  the  springs  of 
nature  within  us,  the  most  subtle  mastery  over  their 
various  operations,  and  a  feeling  of  dramatic  effect 
not  less  wonderfuL  The  very  passages  in  which 
Lady  Macbeth  displays  the  most  savage  and  re- 
lentless determination,  are  so  worded  as  to  fill  the 
mind  with  the  idea  of  sex,  and  place  the  woman 

*  In  her  impersoniition  of  the  part  of  Lady  Macbeth,  Mrs. 
Bidduns  adopted  successively  three  different  intonations  in  giTing 
the  words  tee/ail.  At  first  a  quick  contemptuoos  interrogation 
— "  we  fail?"  Afterwards  with  the  note  of  admiration — we /ail 
and  an  accent  of  indignant  astonishment,  laying  the  principal 
empbajds  on  the  word  we — we  fail !  Lastly,  she  fixed  on  what  I 
tm  uonrinoed  is  the  true  reading — wefiul.  with  the  simple  period, 
modulating  her  voice  to  a  deep,  low,  resolute  tone,  which  settled 
the  issue  at  once — as  though  she  had  said,  "  if  we  Ikll,  why  then 
me  tail,  and  all  is  OTer.'*  This  is  consistent  with  the  dark  fataUne 
•f  the  character  and  tke  Knae  of  the  Une  following,  and  tiw 
•Stet  wa«  sablime,  almoi';  awAiL 


LADY    MACBETH.  441 

befure  as  in  all  her  dearest  attributes,  at  once  soften- 
ing and  refining  the  horror,  and  rendering  it  more 
intense.  Thus,  when  she  reproaches  her  husband 
for  his  weakness — 

From  this  time, 
Such  I  account  thy  love! 

Again, 

Come  to  my  woman's  breast*. 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  ye  murdering  ministers, 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  &c. 

I  have  given  suck,  and  know  how  tender  'tis 
To  love  the  babe  that  milks  me,  &c. 

And  lastly,  in  the  moment  of  extremest  horror 
tomes  that  unexpected  touch  of  feeling,  so  startling, 
fet  80  wonderfully  true  to  nature — 

Had  he  not  resembled  my  father  as  he  slept, 
I  had  done  it ! 

Thus  in  one  of  Weber's  or  Beethoven's  grand 
symphonies,  some  unexpected  soft  minor  chord  or 
pussige  will  steal  on  the  ear,  heard  amid  the  magni- 
ficent crash  of  harmony,  making  the  blood  pause, 
and  filling  the  eye  with  unbidden  tears. 

It  is  particularly  observable,  that  in  Lady  Mao 
beth's  concentrated,  strong-nerved  ambition,  tha 
ruling  passion  of  her  mind,  there  is  yet  a  touch  of 
womanhood :  she  is  ambitious  less  for  herself  than 
dr  her  husband.    It  is  fiir  to  think  this,  bo^aoM 


A50  HISTOBICAL  CHABACTER8. 

we  have  no  reason  to  draw  any  other  inferenoa 
either  from  her  words  or  actions.  In  her  famotu 
loliloquy,  after  reading  her  husband's  letter,  she 
does  not  once  refer  to  herself.  It  is  of  him  she 
thinks:  she  wishes  to  see  her  husband  on  the 
throne,  and  to  place  the  sceptre  within  his  grasp. 
The  strength  of  her  affections  adds  strength  to  her 
ambition.  Although  in  the  old  story  of  Boethius 
we  are  told  that  the  wife  of  Macbeth  "  burned  with 
unquenchable  desire  to  bear  the  name  of  queen," 
yet  in  the  aspect  under  which  Shakspeare  has  rep- 
resented the  character  to  us,  the  selfish  part  of 
this  ambition  is  kept  out  of  sight  We  must  re- 
mark also,  that  in  Lady  Macbeth's  reflections  on 
her  husband's  character,  and  on  that  milkinesa 
of  nature,  whicli  she  fears  "  may  impede  him  from 
ihe  golden  round,"  there  is  no  indication  of  female 
Bcom  :  there  is  exceeding  pride,  but  no  egotism  in 
the  .  sentiment  or  the  expression ; — no  want  of 
wifely  and  womanly  respect  and  love  for  him,  but 
on  the  contrary,  a  sort  of  unconsciousness  of  her 
own  mental  supenority,  which  she  betrays  ralheJ 
than  asserts,  as  interesting  in  itself  as  it  is  most  ad* 
mirably  conceived  and  delineated- 

Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor;  and  shalt  be 

What  thou  art  promised: — Yet  do  I  fear  thj  nature; 

It  18  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kludness, 

To  catch  the  nearest  way.    Thou  would' st  be  great, 

Art  not  without  ambition ;  but  without 

The  illness  should  attend  it.    What  thou  would'st  hl|^ 

That  would'st  thou  holily;  would'st  not  play  falac, 


I.ADT  M4CBETH.  461 

Lid  ret  wonld'st  wrongly  win:   thou'dst  have,  grett 

Glamis, 
rhat  which  cries,  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  haw  it; 
And  thai  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do, 
nan  wiiliest  should  be  undone.    Hie  thee  hither, 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear; 
And  chastise  with  the  valor  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round, 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical*  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crowned  withal 

Nor  is  there  any  thing  vulgar  in  her  ambition  t 
as  the  strength  of  her  affections  lends  to  it  some- 
thing profound  and  concentrated,  so  her  splendid 
imagination,  invests  the  object  of  her  desire  with  its 
own  radiance.  We  cannot  trace  in  her  grand  and 
capacious  mind  that  it  is  the  mere  baubles  and  trap- 
pings of  royalty  which  dazzle  and  allure  her:  hers 
is  the  sin  of  the  "  star-bright  apostate,"  and  she 
plunges  with  her  husband  into  the  abyss  of  guilt, 
to  procure  for  "  all  their  days  and  nights  sole  sov- 
ereign sway  and  masterdom."  She  revels,  she  luxu- 
riates in  her  dream  of  power.  She  reaches  at  the 
igolden  diadem,  which  is  to  sear  her  brain ;  she 
^rils  life  and  soul  for  its  attainment,  with  an  en- 
thusiasm as  perfect,  a  faith  as  settled,  as  that  of  the 
martyr,  who  sees  at  the  stake,  heaven  and  it* 
erowna  of  glory  opening  upon  him. 

Great  Glamis!  worthy  Cawdor! 
Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter  I 

*  Metaphytifol  is  ben  xu«i  is  the  sense  of  spiritoal  or  pwlai 


IA2  HISTORICAL  CHAR1CTKR8. 

Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
Thi»  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  fxitare  in  the  instant! 

This  is  surely  the  very  rapture  of  ambition!  and 
those  who  have  heard  Mrs.  Siddons  pronounce  the 
word  hereafter,  cannot  forget  the  look,  the  tone, 
which  seemed  to  give  her  auditors  a  glimpse  of  that 
awful  future,  which  she,  in  her  prophetic  fury,  be- 
holds upon  the  instant. 

But  to  return  to  the  text  before  us :  Lady  Mac- 
beth having  proposed  the  object  to  herself,  and 
arrayed  it  with  an  ideal  glory,  fixes  her  eyo  stead- 
ily upon  it,  sojirs  far  above  all  womanish  feelings 
and  scruples  to  attain  it,  and  stoops  upon  her  vict'm 
with  the  strength  and  velocity  of  a  vulture ;  but 
having  committed  unflinchingly  the  crime  neoes- 
sary  for  the  attainment  of  her  purpose,  she  stopa 
there.  After  the  murder  of  Duncan,  we  see  Lady 
Macbeth,  during  the  rest  of  the  play,  occupied  in 
supporting  the  nervous  weakness  and  sustaining 
the  fortitude  of  her  husband ;  for  instance,  Macbeth 
•«  at  one  time  on  the  verge  of  frenzy,  between  feai 
and  horror,  and  it  is  clear  that  if  she  loses  her  setf 
eommdnd,  both  must  perish : — 

MACBETH. 

One  cried,  Ood bless  us!    and,  Amm  1  the  others 
As  they  had  seen  me,  with  these  hangman's  handh 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say,  Amen  I 
When  they  did  say,  God  bless  us  I 

I^DT  MACBETH. 

Consider  it  not  so  deeply  I 


T.ADT  MACBETH.  4AI 

JIACBETH. 

Bat  wherefore  conid  not  I  pronounce,  amen) 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  amen 
Stock  in  my  throat. 

LADY  MACBETH. 

These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways :  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

MACBETH. 

Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry, 
"  Sleep  no  more,"  &c.  &c. 

LADT  MACBETH. 

What  do  yon  mean?  who  was  it  that  thus  cried? 

^Tiy,  worthy  Thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brainsickly  of  things. — Go,  get  some  water,  &c.  &«> 

Afterwards,  in  act  iii.,  she  is  represented  as  mutteiw 
ing  to  herself, 

Nought's  had,  all's  spent, 
When  onr  desire  in  got  without  content; 

^et  immediately   addresses  her  moodj  and  coo* 
■cience-stricken  husband — 

How  now,  my  lord?  why  do  you  keep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making? 
Using  those  thoughts,  which  should  indeed  have  di«d 
With  them  they  think  on  ?  Things  without  remedy, 
!$hould  be  without  regard ;  what's  done,  is  done. 

But  she  is  nowhere  represented  as  urging  him  aa 
to  new  crimes  •  so  far  from  it  that  when  Macbeth 


154  HISTORICAL  CHARACIERS. 

darkly  hints  his  purposed  assassination  of  BanqiM^ 
luid  she  inquires  his  meaning,  he  replies, 

Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  tk'^u  approve  the  deed. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  uestraction  of  Mao- 
duflfs  family.  Every  one  must  perceive  how  oui 
detestation  of  the  woman  had  been  Increased,  if 
ihe  had  been  placed  before  us  as  suggesting  and 
abetting  those  additional  cruelties  into  which  Mac* 
beth  is  hurried  by  his  mental  cowardice. 

If  my  feeling  of  Lady  Macbeth's  character  be 
just  to  the  conception  of  the  poet,  then  she  is  one 
who  could  steel  herself  to  the  commission  of  a 
crime  from  necessity  and  expediency,  and  be  dar- 
ingly wicked  for  a  great  end,  but  not  likely  to  per- 
petrate gratuitous  murders  from  any  vague  or 
selfish  fears.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  perfect 
confidence  existing  between  herself  and  Macbeth 
could  possibly  leave  her  in  ignorance  of  his  actions 
or  designs :  that  heart-broken  and  ehuddering  allu- 
sion to  the  murder  of  Lady  Macdull*  (in  the  sleep- 
ing  scene)  proves  the  contrary  : — 

The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife;  where  is  she  now? 

But  she  is  nowhere  brought  before  ua  in  immediate 
vonuection  with  these  horrors,  and  we  are  8j>ared 
any  flagrant  proof  of  her  participation  in  then 
rhis  may  not  strike  us  at  first,  but  most  undoubt 
tdly  has  an  effect  on  the  general  bearing  of  th$ 
tharacter,  considered  as  a  whole. 


LADY  MACBETH.  45J 

Anofher  more  obvious  and  pervading  source  of 
interest  arises  from  that  bond  of  entire  affectioi 
and  conlidenco  -which,  through  the  whole  of  this 
dreadful  tissue  of  crime  and  its  consequences,  unites 
Macbeth  and  his  wife  ;  claiming  from  us  an  invol- 
untary respect  and  sympathy,  and  shedding  a  soft- 
ening influence  over  the  whole  tragedy.  Macbeth 
leans  upon  her  strength,  trusts  in  her  fidelity,  and 
throws  himself  on  her  tenderness. 

0  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife  I 

She  sustains  him,  calms  him,  soothes  him — 

Come  on; 
Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks; 
Be  bright  and  jovial  'mong  your  guests  to-night. 

The  endearing  epithets,  the  terms  of  fondness  in 
which  he  addresses  her,  and  the  tone  of  respect  she 
invariably  maintains  towards  him,  even  when  most 
exasperated  by  his  vacillation  of  mind  and  his 
brain-sick  terrors,  have,  by  the  very  force  of  con- 
trast, a  powerful  effect  on  the  fancy. 

By  these  tender  redeeming  touches  we  are  im- 
pressed with  a  feeling  that  Lady  Macbeth's  influ- 
ence over  the  affections  of  her  husband,  as  a  wife 
and  a  woman,  is  at  least  equal  to  her  power  over 
him  as  a  superior  mind.  Another  thing  has  always 
Btrj:k  me.  During  the  supper  scene,  in  which 
Maobeth  is  haunted  by  the  spectre  of  the  murdered 
tJanquo,  and  his  reason  appears  unsettled  by  the 
«tremity  of  his  horror  and  dismay,  her  indignant 


iM  HISTORICAL   CHARACTEK8. 

rebuke,  her  low  whispered  remonstrarK.e,  the  bkp- 
eastic  emphasis  with  which  she  combats  his  sick 
fancies,  and  endeavors  to  recall  him  to  himseUI 
have  an  intenseness,  a  severity,  a  bitterness,  whiok 
makes  the  blood  creep. 

LADT  MACBETH. 

Are  yoa  a  man? 

HACBETH. 

Aj,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 
Which  might  appall  the  devil. 

LADT  HACBETH. 

0  proper  stuff!  ' 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  yonr  fear: 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger,  which,  yoa  said, 
Led  yon  to  Duncan.    0,  these  flaws  and  starts 
(Impostors  to  true  fear)  would  -^ell  become 
A  woman's  story,  at  a  winter's  fir*, 
Authoriz'd  by  her  grandaml     Shame  itself ! 
Why  do  yon  make  such  faces  ?    When  ail's  dona 
You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

What!  quite  nnmann'd  in  folly? 

Yet  when  the  guests  are  dismissed,  and  the/  are 
V.ft  alone,  she  says  no  more,  and  not  a  syllable  of 
*eproach  or  scorn  escapes  her :  a  few  words  in  sub^ 
misave  reply  to  his  questions,  and  an  entreaty  tc 
seek  repose,  are  all  she  permits  herself  to  utte* 
There  is  a  touch  of  pathos  and  of  tenderness  in  thk 
dlence  which  has  always  affected  me  beyond  ex* 
pressioc  :  it  is  one  of  the  most  masterly  and  moil 
teautifui  truts  of  character  in  the  whole  play. 


LADY   MACBETH,  457 

liSstly,  it  is  clear  that  in  a  mind  constituted  like 
that  of  Lady  Macbeth,  and  not  utterly  depraved 
and  hardened  by  the  habit  of  crime,  conscience 
ro'ist  wake  some  time  or  other,  and  bring  with  it 
remorse  closed  by  despair,  and  despair  by  death. 
This  great  moral  retribution  was  to  be  displayed  to 
us — but  how  ?  Lady  Macbeth  is  not  a  woman  to 
itart  at  shadows ;  she  mocks  at  air-drawn  daggers ; 
she  sees  no  imagined  spectres  rise  from  the  tomb  to 
appall  or  accuse  her.*  The  towering  bravery  of 
her  mind  disdains  the  visionary  terrors  which  haunt 
her  weaker  husband.  We  know,  or  rather  we  feel, 
that  she  who  could  give  a  voice  to  the  most  direful 
intent,  and  call  on  the  spirits  that  wait  on  mortal 
thoughts  to  "  unsex  her,"  and  "  stop  up  all  Jiccess 
and  passage  of  remorse" — to  that  remorse  would 
have  given  nor  tongue  nor  seund  ;  and  that  rather 
than  have  uttered  a  complaint,  she  would  have  held 
her  breath  and  died.  To  have  given  her  a  confi- 
dant, though  in  the  partner  of  her  guilt,  would 
have  been  a  degrading  resource,  and  have  disap- 
pointed and  enfeebled  all  our  previous  impressions 
of  her  character  ;  yet  justice  is  to  be  done,  and  we 
lire  to  be  made  acquainted  with  that  whiih  the 
woman  herself  would  have  suffered  a  thousand 
deaths  of  torture  rather  than  have  betrayed.    In 

*  Mrs.  Siddons,  I  beUere,  had  an  Idea  that  Lady  Macbeth  h»- 
h«ld  the  spectre  of  Banquo  in  the  supper  scene,  and  that  h<t( 
Wif-eontrol  and  presence  of  mind  enabled  her  to  surmount  hnr 
consciousness  of  the  ghastlr  presence  This  would  be  superha* 
mn,  and  I  do  not  see  that  either  the  oharacter  or  tbe  text  beat 
>at  tliis  guppotdtioQ 


458  HISTORICAL    CHARACTERS. 

Iho  sleeping  scene  we  Lave  a  glimpse  into  iht 
depths  of  that  inward  bell :  the  seared  brain  and 
broken  heart  are  laid  bare  before  us  in  the  help- 
lessness of  slumber.  By  a  judgment  the  most  sub 
lime  ever  imagined,  yet  the  most  unforced,  natural, 
and  inevitable,  the  sleep  of  her  who  murdered 
Bleep  b  no  longer  repose,  but  a  condensation  of 
resistless  horrors  which  the  prostrate  intellect  and 
powerless  will  can  neither  baffle  nor  repel.  We 
shudder  and  are  satisfied  ;  yet  our  human  s^iiipap 
thies  are  again  touched :  we  rather  sigh  over  the 
ruin  than  exult  in  it ;  and  after  watching  her 
through  this  wonderful  scene  with  a  sort  of  faacinar 
tion,  we  dismiss  the  unconscious,  helpless,  despair- 
stricken  murderess,  with  a  feeling  which  Lady 
Macbeth,  in  her  waking  strength,  with  all  her 
awe-commanding  powers  about  her,  could  never 
have  excited. 

It  is  here  especially  we  perceive  that  sweetneai 
of  nature  which  in  Shakspeare  went  hand  in  hand 
with  his  astonishing  powers.  He  never  confoundi 
that  line  of  demarcation  which  eternally  separates 
good  from  evil,  yet  he  never  places  evil  before  ui 
without  exciting  in  some  way  a  consciousness  of 
the  opposite  good  which  shall  balance  and  relieve 
It 

I  do  deny  that  he  has  represented  in  Lady  Mao 
beth  a  woman  "  naturally  cruel"  *  "  invariably 
usoage"  f  or  endued  with  "  pure  demoniac  firn^ 
fCM."  X    If  ever  thertj  could  have  existed  a  womai 

*  f^amlMrland.    f  Profeaior  Bicluurdaon.    X  f  Mtar's  Sm»7I. 


LA^Y   MACBETH.  455 

to  whom  such  phrases  could  apply — a  woman  ¥ril!»« 
out  touch  of  modesty,  pity  or  fear, — Shakspear^ 
knew  that  a  thing  so  monstrous  was  unfit  for  all 
the  purposes.of  poetry.  If  Lady  Macbeth  had  been 
naturally  cruel,  she  needed  not  so  solemnly  to  have 
abjured  all  pity,  and  called  on  the  spirits  that  wait 
on  mortal  thoughts  to  unsex  her ;  nor  would  she 
have  been  loved  to  excess  by  a  man  of  Macbeth's 
character ;  for  it  is  the  sense  of  intellectual  energy 
and  strength  of  will  overpowering  her  feminine 
nature,  which  draws  from  him  that  botst  of  intense 
admiration — 

Bring  forth  men  chfldren  only, 

For  thy  undaunted  metal  should  compose 

Nothing  but  males. 

If  she  had  been  invariably  savage,  her  love  would 
not  have  comforted  and  sustained  her  husband  in 
his  despair,  nor  would  her  upUfled  dagger  have 
been  aiTcsted  by  a  dear  and  venerable  image  ris- 
ing between  her  soul  and  its  fell  purpose.  If  en- 
dued with  pure  demoniac  Jirmness,  her  woman'r 
nature  would  not,  by  the  reaction,  have  been  so 
horribly  avenged,  she  would  not  have  died  of 
remorse  and  despair. 

«  «  »  «  « 

"We  cannot  but  observe  that  through  the  whole 
•f  the  dialogue  appropriated  to  Lady  Macbeth,  there 
u  something  very  peculiar  and  characteristic  in  the 
tu'Ti  of  expression:  her  compliments,  when  she  ifl 
playing  the  hostess  or  the  queen,  are  elaborately 
4egant  and  verbose :  but,  when  in   earnest,  sbe 


190  HISTORICAL  CHARACTBRS. 

speaks  in  short  energetic  sentences — sometimea 
abnipt,  but  always  full  of  meaning ;  her  thought! 
arc  rapid  and  clear,  her  expressions  forcible,  and 
the  imagery  like  sudden  flashes  of  lightning :  all 
the  foregoing  extracts  exhibit  this,  but  I  ifiF 
veature  one  more,  as  an  immediate  illustration. 

MACBETH. 

My  dearest  love, 
Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

tiADT  MACBETH. 

And  when  goes  henoe  / 

MACBETH. 

T<Mnorrow, — as  he  purposes. 

LADT  MACBETH. 

0  never 
Shan  wva  that  morrow  see  t 
Thy  fi  !e,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book,  where  men 
Mav  read  strange  matters ; — to  begaile  the  time, 
.xx>k  like  the  time ;  bear  welcome  in  yoor  eye 
Your  tongue,  your  hand;  look  like  the  innocent  flower, 
Bat  be  the  serpent  under  it. 

What  would  not  the  firmness,  the  self-command, 
the  enthusiasm,  the  intellect,  the  ardent  afiectioni 
•f  this  woman  have  performed,  if  properly  directed  ? 
but  the  object  being  unworthy  of  the  eflTort,  the 
md  is  disappointment,  despair,  and  death. 

The  power  of  religion  could  alone  have  con- 
trolled such  a  mind ;  but  it  is  the  misery  of  a  verf 
proud,  strong,  and  gifled  spirit,  without  sense  o. 
religion,  that  instead  of  lookii\£  upward  to  find  • 


LADY  MACBETH.  481 

nipenor,  looks  round  and  sees  all  thingu  as  subject 
to  itself.  Lady  Macbeth  is  placed  in  a  dark,  igno- 
rant, iron  ^e ;  her  powerful  intellect  is  slightly 
dnged  with  its  credulity  and  superstition,  but  she 
has  no  religious  feeling  to  restrain  the  force  of 
wilL  She  is  a  stern  fatalist  in  principle  and  action 
— "  what  is  dpne,  is  done,"  and  would  be  done  over 
again  under  the  same  circumstances ;  her  remorse 
18  without  repentance,  or  any  reference  to  an  of- 
fended Deity ;  it  arises  from  the  pang  of  a  wounded 
conscience,  the  recoil  of  the  violated  feehngs  of 
nature :  it  is  the  horror  of  the  past,  not  the  terror 
of  the  future ;  the  torture  of  self-condemnation, 
not  the  fear  of  judgment ;  it  is  strong  as  her  soul, 
deep  as  her  guilt,  fatal  as  her  resolve,  aad  terrible 
as  her  crime. 

J£  it  should  be  objected  to  this  view  of  Ladjr 
Macbeth's  character,  that  it  engages  our  sympathies 
in  behalf  of  a  perverted  being — and  that  to  leave 
her  so  strong  a  power  upon  our  feelings  in  the  midst 
of  such  supreme  wickedness,  involves  a  moral 
wrong,  I  can  only  reply  in  the  words  of  Dr.  Chan- 
tiing,  that  "  in  this  and  the  like  cases  our  interest 
fastens  on  what  is  not  evil  in  the  character — that 
there  is  something  kindling  and  ennobling  in  the 
consciousness,  however  awakened,  of  the  energy 
which  resides  in  mind ;  and  many  a  virtuous  man 
has  borrowed  new  strength  from  the  force,  con- 
itancy,  and  dauntless  courage  of  evil  agents."  * 

*  See  Dr.  Channing's  remarks  on  Sataa,  in  his  esMy  "  Od  tt* 
nauBCter  and  ^Vritings  of  Miltpn."^  Works,  p  ISL 


It  HI8TORTCAL   CHARACTERS. 

This  13  true ;  and  might  he  not  have  added,  that 
many  a  powerful  and  gifted  spirit  has  learnt  humil- 
ity and  self-government,  from  beholding  how  far 
the  energy  which  resides  in  mind  may  be  degraded 
and  perverted  ? 

•  «  •  •  • 

In  general,  when  a  woman  is  introduced  into  a 
tragedy  to  be  the  presiding  genius  of  evil  in  herself, 
or  the  cause  of  evil  to  others,  she  is  either  too 
feebly  or  too  darkly  portrayed ;  either  crime  is 
heaped  on  crime,  and  horror  on  horror,  till  our 
sympathy  is  lost  in  incredulity,  or  the  stimulus  is 
sought  in  unnatural  or  impossible  situations,  or  in 
situations  that  ought  to  be  impossible,  (as  in  the 
Myrrha  or  the  Cenci,)  or  the  character  is  enfeebled 
by  a  mixture  of  degrading  propensities  and  sexual 
weakness,  as  in  Vittoria  Corombona.  But  Lady 
Macbeth,  though  so  supremely  wicked,  and  so  con- 
sistently feminine,  is  still  kept  aloof  from  all  base 
alloy.  When  Shjikspeare  created  a  female  char- 
acter purely  detestable,  he  made  her  an  accessary, 
never  a  principal.  Thus  Regan  and  Goneril  are 
two  powerful  sketches  of  selfishness,  cruelty,  and 
ingratitude ;  we  abhor  them  whenever  we  see  of 
think  of  them,  but  we  think  very  little  about  them, 
•xcept  as  necessary  to  the  action  of  the  drama, 
rhey  are  to  cause  the  madness  of  Lear,  and  to  caC 
forth  the  filial  devotion  of  Cordelia,  and  their  de- 
^rarity  is  forgotten  in  its  effects.  A  comparison 
Das  been  made  between  Lady  Macbeth  and  thfl 
Greek  Clj'temnestra  in  the  Agamemnon  of  Eschj» 


LADY   MACBETH.  469 

hu.  Th^  Clytemnestra  of  Sophocles  is  something 
more  in  Shakspeare's  spirit,  for  she  is  something 
less  impudently  atrocious ;  but,  considered  aa  a 
woman  and  an  individual,  would  any  one  compare 
this  shameless  adulteress,  cruel  murderess,  and 
unnatural  mother,  with  Lady  Macbeth  ?  Lady 
Macbeth  herself  would  certainly  shrink  from  tlia 
approximation.* 

The  Electra  of  Sophocles  comes  nearer  to  Lady 
Macbeth  as  a  poetical  conception,  with  this  strong 
distinction,  that  she  commands  more  respect  and 
esteem,  and  less  sympathy.  The  murder  in  which 
she  participates  is  ordained  by  the  oracle — is  an 
act  of  justice,  and  therefore  less  a  murder  than 
a  sacrifice.  Electra  is  drawn  with  magnificent 
simplicity  and  intensity  of  feeling  and  purpose, 
but  there  is  a  want  of  light,  and  shade,  and  relief. 
Thus  the  scene  in  which  Orestes  stabs  his  mother 
within  her  chamber,  and  she  is  heard  pleading  for 

*  The  vision  of  Clytemnestra  the  night  before  she  is  murdeied, 
In  which  she  dreams  that  she  has  given  birth  to  a  dragon,  and 
tliat,  in  laying  it  to  her  bosom,  it  draws  blood  instead  of  milk, 
has  been  greatly  admired ;  but  I  suppose  that  those  who  most 
admire  it  would  not  place  it  in  comparison  with  Lady  Macbeth'* 
sleeping  scene.  Lady  Ashton,  in  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  if 
%  domestic  Lady  Macbeth;  but  the  development  being  in  the 
narrative,  not  the  dramatic  form,  it  follows  hence  that  we  bav« 
%  masterly  portrait,  not  a  complete  individual :  and  the  relief  of 
po(>try  and  sympathy  being  wanting,  the  detestation  she  inspirea 
tl  so  unmixed  as  to  be  almost  intolerable:  consequently  tha 
•haracter,  considered  in  relation  to  the  other  personages  of  Um 
ftory,  is  perfect;  bat  abstractedly,  It  Is  imperftot;  a  boMO  nlln* 
-Bftt  a  itotn*. 


164  HISTORICAL  CHARACTERS. 

mercy,  while  Electra  stands  forward  listening  ex 
ultingly  to  her  mother's  cries,  and  urging  het 
brother  to  strike  again,  "  another  blow  1  another  I " 
&c.  is  terribly  fine,  but  the  horror  is  too  shocking,  too 
physical — if  I  may  use  such  an  expression :  it  will 
not  surely  bear  a  comparison  with  the  murdering 
scene  in  Macbeth,  where  the  exhibition  of  varioui 
passions — the  irresolution  of  Macbeth,  the  bold  de- 
termination of  his  wife,  the  deep  suspense,  the  rage 
of  the  elements  without,  the  horrid  stillness  within, 
and  the  secret  feeling  of  that  infernal  agency  which 
is  ever  present  to  the  fancy,  even  when  not  visible 
on  the  scene — throw  a  rich  coloring  of  poetry  over 
the  whole,  which  does  not  take  from  "  the  present 
horror  of  the  time,"  and  yet  relieves  it  Shak- 
Bpeare's  blcickest  shadows  are  like  those  of  Rem- 
breindt :  so  intense,  that  the  gloom  which  brooded 
over  Egypt  in  her  day  of  wrath  was  pale  in  com- 
parison— yet  so  transparent  that  we  seem  to  see 
the  light  of  heaven  through  their  depth. 

In  the  whole  compass  of  dramatic  poetry,  there 
18  but  one  female  character  which  can  be  placed 
near  that  of  Lady  Macbeth;  the  J^Iedea.  Not 
the  vulgar,  voluble  fury  of  the  Latin  tragedy,* 
nor  the  Medea  in  a  hoop  petticoat  of  Corneille, 
but  the  genuine  Greek  Medea — the  Medea  of 
Euripides,  f 

•  AttribTited  to  Seneca. 

*  A  oomparison  has  already  been  made  In  an  artiele  In  thi 
*  Reflector."    It  will  be  seen  on  a  reference  to  that  r«rj  mastari] 

■May,  that  I  differ  from  the  author  in  hia  eoneeptton  of  I«4} 
Ibcbeth't  character. 


LADT   MACBETH.  465 

^ere  is  something  in  the  Medea  which  seizef 
hresistiblj  on  the  imagination.  Her  pasbiou&te 
devotion  to  Jason,  for  whom  she  had  left  her  parecta 
Mid  country — ^to  whom  she  had  given  all,  sad 

Would  have  drawn  the  spirit  from  her  breast 
Had  he  bat  asked  it,  sighing  forth  her  soul 
Into  his  bosom;* 

Ae  wrongs  and  insults  which  drive  her  to  despera- 
tion— the  horrid  refinement  of  cruelty  with  which 
she  plans  and  executes  her  revenge  upon  her 
faithless  husband — the  gush  of  fondness  with  which 
she  weeps  over  her  children,  whom  in  the  next 
moment  she  devotes  to  destruction  in  a  paroxysm 
of  insane  fury,  carry  the  terror  and  pathos  of  tragic 
situation  to  their  extreme  height.  But  if  we  may 
be  allowed  to  judge  through  the  medium  of  a  trans- 
lation, there  is  a  certain  hardness  in  the  manner  of 
treating  the  character,  which  in  some  degree  de- 
teats  the  effect  Medea  talks  too  much :  her  human 
feelings  and  superhuman  power  are  not  sufficiently 
blended.  Taking  into  consideration  the  different 
impulses  which  actuate  Medea  and  Lady  Macbeth, 
fts  love,  jealousy,  and  revenge  on  the  one  side,  and 
ambition  on  the  other,  we  expect  to  find  more  of 
female  nature  in  the  first  than  in  the  last :  and  yet 
iflie  contrary  is  the  fact :  at  least,  my  own  impression 
u  far  as  a  woman  may  judge  of  a  woman,  is,  that 
Although  the  passions  of  Medea  are  more  feminine, 

*  Appollonitu  RbodiuB.— T7</«  Elton'a  S|iecimena  of  the  Cla«li 
^wto. 

80 


IM  HISTORICAL   CHARACIERS. 

the  character  Is  less  so ;  we  seem  to  requi/e  mor* 
feeling  in  her  iSerceness,  more  passion  in  her 
frenzy ;  something  less  of  poetical  abstraction, — 
less  art,  fewer  words :  her  delirious  vengeance  we 
might  forgive,  but  her  calmness  and  subtlety  are 
rather  revolting. 

These  two  admirable  characters,  placed  in 
contrast  to  each  other,  afford  a  fine  illustration  of 
Schlegel's  distinction  between  the  ancient  or  Greek 
drama,  which  he  compares  to  sculpture,  and  the 
modern  or  romantic  drama,  which  he  compares  to 
painting.  The  gothic  grandeur,  the  rich  chiaro- 
scuro, and  deep-toned  colors  of  Lady  Macbeth, 
8tand  thus  opposed  to  the  classical  elegance  and 
mythological  splendor,  the  delicate  yet  inflexible 
outline  of  the  Medea.  If  I  might  be  permitted  to 
carry  this  illustration  still  further,  I  would  add,  that 
there  exists  the  same  distinction  between  the  Lady 
Macbeth  and  the  Medea,  as  between  the  Medusa 
of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  the  Medusa  of  the  Greek 
gems  and  bas  reliefs.  In  the  painting,  the  horror 
of  the  subject  is  at  once  exalted  and  softened  by 
the  most  vivid  coloring,  and  the  most  magical  con- 
trast of  light  and  shade.  We  gaze — until,  from  the 
murky  depths  of  the  background,  the  serpent  hair 
•eems  to  stir  and  glitter  as  if  instinct  with  life,  and 
the  head  itself,  in  all  its  ghastliness  and  brightne»% 
tppears  to  rise  from  the  canvass  with  the  glare 
>f  reality.  In  the  Medusa  of  sculpture,  how  di4 
ferent  is  the  effect  on  the  imagination  I  We  have 
here  the  snakes  convolving  roun  i  the  winged  and 


LADT   MACBETH.  467 

graceful  head:  the  brows  contracted  with  horror 
and  pain ;  but  every  feature  is  chiselled  into  the 
most  regular  and  faultless  perfection ;  and  amid  the 
gorgon  terrors,  there  rests  a  marbly,  fixed,  super- 
natural grace,  which,  without  reminding  us  for  a 
moment  of  common  life  or  nature,  stands  before  ni 
ft  presence,  a  power,  and  an  enchantment ! 


I  i 


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